THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

t 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 

THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 

i 
I 

BENNIE    BEN    CREE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arcinive 

in  2010  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/benniebencreebeiOOcolt 


Bennie    Ben    Cree 


Being  the  Story  of  his  Adventure 
to   Southward   in  the  Year  '62 


By 

Arthur  Colton 


Doubleday  &   McClure   Co. 
New  York  1900 


Copyright,  1900,  by 

DOVBLKDAY    i    MCCLURE   COMPANY 


Dedicated 

TO 

MY    MOTHER 


602780 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Benson   and   Crbe — The  Commodoee 
Inn   Fore   and  Aft  ;    and   a  Point 
Stated  bt  mt  Uncle  Benson,         .       3 
II.  LACEiMiE    Rerum— The    Three    Men 

IN  THE  Public,  .         .         .         .23 

III.  Down  this  Coast— Cavarlt's  Plan,   .     41 
IV.  I     Talk     with     Calhoun     and    the 

"Octaeara"  Goes  East  and  West,     61 

V.  Tommy  Todd's, 82 

VI.  The  Dismal  Canal,     .         .         .         .101 
VII.  We  Come  to  a  River  Called  Eliza- 
beth    AND     to    Another     Called 
James — Conclusion,  .         .         .  120 


BENNIE  BEN  CREE. 


BENME  BEN  CREE 


CHAPTEE   I. 


BENSON  AND  CREE — THE  COMMODORE 
INN,  FORE  AND  AFT;  AJfD  A  POINT 
STATED   BY   MY  UNCLE   BENSON. 

If  anyone  would  understand  how  Ben 
Cree  comes  to  be  what  he  is  for  better  or 
worse,  he  should  know  first  the  Commo- 
dore Inn  and  what  it  meant  in  those  days 
to  have  the  great  wharves  for  a  play- 
ground. And  I  cannot  conceive  to  this 
day  how  one  can  amuse  oneself,  or  be 
satisfied  with  any  neat  door-yard  or  in- 
land village  street,  unless  one  is  bom  a 
girl  with  a  starched  pinafore,  which  I 
should  think  would  be  a  pity. 

First,  then,  you  should  picture  the 
3 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

Commodore  Inn;  its  red  bricks  streaked 
with  the  rain  and  the  beat  of  damp 
winds;  its  high  veranda,  with  the  paint 
coming  off  the  white  pillars,  and  the  worn 
stone  steps  leading  underneath.  In  front 
is  the  brick  sidewalk,  the  cobbled  street, 
the  bit  of  open  space  with  Harrier's  junk- 
shop  on  the  right  corner;  and  then  the 
warehouses  on  either  side,  all  leading 
down  to  the  slip,  Doty's  Slip,  which  is 
flanked  by  noble  wharves,  with  huge 
piles  leaning  awry  and  very  slippery. 
The  warehouses  are  roomy  and  full  of 
queer  smells,  as  if  the  varied  merchan- 
dize of  fifty  years  had  left  something  for 
its  old  friends,  the  warehouses,  to  re- 
member it  by.  The  contents  of  these 
warehouses  changed  continually:  cotton, 
tobacco,  slabs  of  crude  rubber,  and  multi- 
tudes of  boxes  whose  contents  might  be 
learned  sometimes  by  asking  the  wharf- 
master,  if  you  did  not  mind  his  cuffing 
you  on  the  ears.  Next  there  would  be 
4 


The  Commodore  Inn. 

the  river  and  its  hurrying  tides,  its 
choppy  waves,  the  ferryboats,  sailboats, 
and  tugs  going  to  and  fro :  to  right  and 
left — seen  well  by  climbing  the  ware- 
house roofs — are  masts  of  many  ships 
with  innumerable  amusing  ropes,  other 
wharves  with  the  like  slippery  brown 
piles  and  dark  places  underneath  where 
the  water  thieves  hid  and  bored  holes 
up  through  the  planks  into  the  molasses 
barrels.  Mr.  Hooley,  the  wharf  police- 
man, told  me  of  that,  and  there  was 
much  that  was  attractive  in  it.  For 
there  was  a  time,  before  my  ideas  be- 
came settled,  when  I  thought  of  many 
different  careers.  To  be  a  wharf  police- 
man seemed  too  ambitious  a  thought,  too 
vain  and  far  away ;  so  that  I  asked  Mr. 
Hooley's  advice  about  water  thieving, 
having  respect  for  his  opinion. 

"Naw,  Bennie  Ben,"  he  said,  "'tis  low. 
'Tis  not  for  the  son  of  yer  father,  an'  yer 
mother  a  lady  as  was  ever  bor-m." 
5 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  be  a  wharf 
policeman,  Mr.  Hooley?" 

"Ah,"  he  said,  looking  mysterious, 
"who  knows  that?  Don't  ye  let  young 
Dillon  lick  ye,  an'  maybe — but  'tis  a 
long  way  f er  ye  to  grow. " 

But  I  was  speaking  of  the  river.  The 
navy  yard  lay  nearly  opposite,  and  the 
Wallabout,  as  that  water  is  called  behind 
the  Government  Cob  Dock.  And  that 
stretch  of  busy  river,  with  its  tumult  and 
tides,  I  love  still  no  less,  and  love  the 
thick  smell  of  the  wharves  and  ware- 
houses. 

My  two  grandfathers,  Benson  and  Cree, 
were  shipping  merchants  together,  "  Ben- 
son &  Cree,"  long  ago,  when  you  did  not 
have  to  go  beyond  the  Harlem  for  a 
bit  of  country.  Indeed,  my  Grandmother 
Cree,  I  am  told,  had  a  great  flower  and 
vegetable  garden,  and  there  was  an  orchard 
behind  the  house,  where  in  my  time  was 
but  a  little  yard.  The  house  was  built 
6 


The   Commodore  Inn. 

for  some  colonial  gentleman's  residence, 
and  my  grandfathers  bought  it  when 
prosperity  came  to  them.  And  there 
they  lived  together  with  their  families, 
and  there  were  my  father  and  mother 
born,  for  they  were  cousins,  and  also 
Uncle  Benson  and  the  two  others  who 
went  down  off  Barnegat :  a  great,  warm- 
hearted house,  red-walled  and  white- 
pillared. 

The  firm  in  its  best  days  owned  five 
ships.  And  by  an  odd  arrangement  one 
of  them  was  always  sailed  by  a  member 
of  the  firm.  They  had  their  turns,  one 
abroad  and  one  at  home.  From  this 
came  the  rhyme, 

"  Benson  and  Cree, 
One  at  home  and  one  at  sea" ; 

my  father  used  to  sing  it,  when  absent- 
minded,  to  a  queer  haphazard  tune.  And 
I  have  heard  Harrier,  the  junk-shop  man, 
sing  it  too.     But  my  father,  if  he  saw 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

me  listening,  would  stop  and  seem 
ashamed,  whicli  I  could  not  explain  at 
first. 

My  father  was  an  only  child,  and  my 
mother  an  only  daughter,  but  there  were 
once  three  Benson  boys.  I  am  not  sure 
of  my  Grandfather  Cree,  nor  of  my  two 
grandmothers,  at  what  dates  they  died, 
but  in  the  year  1838  three  of  the  five 
ships  were  lost :  one  of  them  with  Grand- 
father Benson  (in  what  waters  is  un- 
known), one  of  them  with  two  of  his  sons 
off  Barnegat,  and  one  of  them  left  a  tilted 
wreck  in  the  mid -Atlantic.  And  that 
same  year  my  father  made  his  last  voy- 
age, though  still  young  in  a  way ;  for  he 
came  back  with  his  knee  crushed  by  the 
smack  of  a  loose  spar  in  a  heavy  sea,  and 
walked  with  a  crutch  forever  after. 

When  my  time  came,  there  was  no 
firm  of  Benson  &  Cree.  Our  fortunes  had 
not  fallen  altogether,  but  were  moder- 
ate enough.  Only  three  persons  remained 
8 


The   Commodore  Inn. 

of  the  two  families.  Uncle  Ben  Benson 
was  captain  and  part  owner  of  the  Sara- 
toga, a  good  ship,  carrying  steam  and 
sail,  and  landing  merchandize  at  Doty's 
Slip.  The  hovise  was  now  the  Commodore 
Inn,  kept  by  Tom  Cree,  my  father.  Ah, 
that  was  a  brave  man,  loud-voiced,  joy- 
ful !  I  believe  I  would  break  my  knee 
willingly,  and  carry  a  crutch  to  the  end 
of  my  days,  to  be  so  good  a  man,  so 
simple  and  full  of  the  pleasure  of  things. 

My  mother  was  singularly  quiet  in  her 
ways,  but  I  think  the  success  of  the 
Commodore  came  from  my  father's  popu- 
larity and  my  mother's  management,  and 
it  was  her  hand  that  was  on  the  tiller. 

And  now,  speaking  of  the  Commodore 
as  if  it  were  a  ship,  I  come  to  what  is 
properly  the  beginning  of  this  story. 

Very  few  of  those  who  came  to  the 
Commodore — and  they  were  mostly  sea- 
faring folk  of  the  better  class — ever  saw 
my  mother.  She  never  appeared  on  the 
9 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

front  porch  with  the  pillars,  where  my 
father  sat  often  and  shouted  heartily  to 
any  friend  in  sight ;  but  she  was  always 
above,  and  often  in  her  sewing-room  that 
looked  out  on  the  little  garden  in  the 
rear.  I  never  knew  her  to  come  out  of 
the  front  door,  or  to  look  from  the  windows 
on  the  slip;  but  whenever  she  went 
abroad  it  was  through  the  back  door  and 
the  little  garden,  gliding  so  quietly,  so 
gently,  that  it  seemed  wonderful  to  me, 
who  could  not  move,  any  more  than  could 
my  father,  without  a  thunderous  racket. 
I  can  see  her  plainly,  with  her  black 
shawl  and  sweet  still  face  under  an  over- 
hanging bonnet,  going  out  through  the 
little  garden. 

How  early  or  in  what  way  I  learned  it 
I  am  not  sure,  but  it  seems  as  if  it  had 
always  been  a  settled  thing  that  I  must 
not  speak  to  her  of  the  slip,  or  the  river, 
or  the  ships,  or  anything  in  view  from 
the  front  porch ;  but  things  which  could 
10 


The  Commodore  Inn. 

be  seen  from  the  windows  of  her  sewing- 
room,  the  garden,  the  people  in  the  other 
street,  the  carriages  and  'busses,  steeples 
and  distant  roofs,  these  I  might  talk 
about.  When  Uncle  Benson  came  home, 
once  a  year  perhaps,  the  difference  be- 
tween the  porch  or  inn  parlour  and  the 
sewing-room  was  notable.  For  below  the 
talk  was  all  of  the  sea,  winds,  and  islands, 
and  full  queer  phrases  of  the  shipping — ■ 
my  father  loud  and  merry,  and  my  uncle 
full  of  dry  stories;  my  father's  huge 
beard  rumpled  on  his  chest  with  laughter; 
Uncle  Benson,  as  always  when  ashore, 
clean  shaven  and  very  natty  in  his 
clothes.  But  when  we  went  above  to 
the  sewing-room,  my  mother  would  make 
tea  on  the  hob,  while  the  two  men  played 
backgammon,  and  you  would  have 
thought,  for  all  that  was  said  of  it,  that 
there  was  no  sea  at  all,  flowing  and 
wrapped  about  the  world.  It  was  all 
quiet  talk  of  the  house,  the  new  minister 
11 


Bennie   Ben   Cree 

at  the  Broadway  Church,  and  how  it 
were  well  for  Bennie  to  mind  better  his 
books. 

All  this  did  not  seem  strange  to  me 
until  it  was  explained,  and  then  it  seemed 
strange.  For  the  things  one  is  accus- 
tomed to  when  a  little  child  appear  only 
a  part  of  common  nature,  whatever  they 
are,  and  no  more  to  be  wondered  at  than 
tides  and  the  flight  of  gulls. 

I  had  learned  the  story  of  that  sudden, 
disastrous  year,  '38,  though  not  from  my 
father.  He  was  a  man  curiously  with- 
out shrewdness  to  suspect  what  I  might 
be  thinking,  and  without  that  kind  of 
courage — if  I  may  say  so  with  affection 
— which  enables  a  man  to  approach  at 
need  a  subject  which  is  sad  or  sore  to 
him  inwardly.  So  that,  while  I  had  my 
own  thoughts,  the  thing  was  not  all  ex- 
plained till  I  was  a  well-grown,  clumsy 
lad. 

In  this  while  it  had  come  slowly  upon 
12 


The  Commodore  Inn. 

me,  until  at  last  it  was  a  great  convic- 
tion, that  I  must  be  neither  a  water-thief, 
nor  policeman,  nor  a  doctor  driving  his 
carriage,  nor  a  preacher  in  a  carpeted 
pulpit,  but  a  seaman  and  sometime  a 
ship- captain  like  Uncle  Benson,  which 
idea  became  a  hunger  and  thirst.  But 
when  I  told  my  father  of  it,  he  looked  at 
me  queerly,  and  told  me  to  mind  my 
books.  And  I  noticed  that  he  would 
talk  no  more  of  sea  matters  when  I  was 
near,  and  would  send  me  away  from  the 
inn  parlour  to  go  up  to  the  sewing-room. 
So,  whenever  I  pressed  him  to  say  I  was 
to  be  a  sailor,  he  would  put  it  aside  with 
a  look  on  his  face  that  puzzled  me,  for 
it  was  not  only  sadness,  but  fear.  The 
sweat  would  come  on  his  forehead  and 
his  hand  shake.  I  think  I  was  little 
comfort  to  anyone  in  those  days,  knock- 
ing about  the  streets  and  wharves,  idle, 
sullen,  and  restless,  wronging  those  in  my 
thoughts  who  loved  me  most. 
18 


Bennie  Ben  Crce. 

That  old  song  I  took  to  humming  to 
myself  ■ — 

"Benson  and  Cree, 
One  at  home  and  one  at  sea," 

till  I  had  fairly  got  it  changed,  so  that  it 

ran — 

"Bennie  Ben  Cree, 
Come  away  to  the  sea," 

and  the  lilt  of  the  tune  never  failed  to 
put  a  beating  in  my  ears  and  a  burning 
in  my  eyes,  and  fill  my  head  with  foolish 
fancies.  I  would  sing  it  to  Harrier  in 
his  shop,  and  Harrier  would  say,  "Aye, 
aye,  sonny!     Them's  new  words." 

So  it  was  come  the  year  '61;  and  late 
in  the  month  of  May  the  Saratoga  lay  in 
the  slip  being  fitted  out  for  government 
use  to  blockade  Southern  ports,  and  some- 
time, then  or  later,  was  towed  across  to 
the  navy  yard.  She  was  sold  to  the  ser- 
vice, with  the  option  of  repurchase  if  not 
destroyed,  and  Uncle  Benson  was  enlisted 
14 


The  Commodore  Inn. 

to  command  her,  and  looked  a  fit  proper 
man  in  his  uniform,  which  excited  me 
almost  beyond  endurance. 

Now  I  am  come  to  a  scene  in  the  little 
inn  parlour  behind  the  public  room.  It 
was  my  father's  office,  and  in  a  manner 
his  room  of  state.  You  should  see  in 
mind  a  square  room  with  pleasant  cur- 
tains and  a  gay  carpet  on  the  floor,  a 
round  stove  with  no  fire  in  it  at  this 
time;  there  are  six  or  eight  stout  chairs 
of  varied  shape,  about  the  number  of  my 
father's  cronies,  who  came  evenings  to 
pack  themselves  in,  and  make  the  air 
white  with  smoke  and  salty  with  old  sea 
memories.  In  the  comer  is  a  snug  desk, 
and  about  the  walls  models  of  "Benson 
&  Cree's  "  five  ships;  portraits  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  a  painting  of  an  imlikely  looking 
coast;  on  one  side  shelves  with  a  few 
books,  but  mainly  pink  and  white  shells, 
and  stuffed  fishes. 

Uncle  Benson  and  my  father  are  sit- 
15 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

ting  looking  at  me,  who  am  standing 
awkwardly  enough  and  shifting  my  feet 
about.  Uncle  Benson  is  saying,  "  We're 
going  to  put  it  to  you,  Ben,"  and  my 
father  bursts  in  nervously : 

"That's  it,  Ben.  We're  going  to  put 
it  to  you,  just  how  it  is,  don't  you  see?  " 

My  uncle  coughed,  and  beginning  in 
an  oddly  stiff  and  formal  way  told  the 
story  of  the  year  1838,  for  the  most  part 
what  I  knew  already,  as  I  told  him,  not 
meaning  to  be  impolite. 

"Aye,  Ben,"  said  he,  quietly,  "but  I'm 
going  on.  You  don't  know  that  your 
mother,  for  a  year  or  more " 

"Eighteen  months,"  said  my  father, 
leaning  forward  and  speaking  huskily. 

"Eighteen  months.  Well,  well,  a 
wonderful  woman,  your  mother,  but 
women  take  trouble  different  ways. 
Some  take  it  hard." 

I  stared  at  them,  bewildered  enough, 
while  they  looked  long  at  each  other, 
16 


The   Commodore  Inn. 

seeming  to  take  comfort  from  it.  Uncle 
Benson,  leaning  forward,  touched  my 
father's  knee. 

"You  and  me,  Tom,  we  most  gave  it 
up." 

And  my  father  pulled  his  beard  fiercely. 

"Gave  what  up?"  I  cried.  "What 
was  it? " 

"Aye,"  said  my  father  with  a  start, 
"we're  going  to  put  it  to  you,  Ben." 

"Why,"  said  Uncle  Benson  softly, 
"'twas  a  shock  she  had,  'twas  a  tough 
time,  and  you  weren't  a  man,  Tom,  to 
see  what  to  do." 

"No  good  at  all,"  said  my  father,  shak- 
ing his  head. 

Again  they  fell  to  looking  at  each 
other,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  ending 
of  my  impatience. 

"Oh,"  said  Uncle  Benson  at  last,  "but 
we're  not  putting  it  to  you,  Ben." 

"Aye,"  said  my  father,  "we're  going  to 
put  it  to  you." 

2  17 


Bennic  Ben   Crec. 

And  my  uncle  went  on. 

"Eighteen  months  it  was,  and  right  you 
are.  A  moaning,  trembling,  walking  the 
floor  like  one  as  has  a  bad  dream  and 
no  let  up.  Wrong,  wrong  in  her  head, 
and  by  times  very  wild,  Ben,  and  suffer- 
ing terrible  with  fancies;  by  times  not 
knowing  anyone,  and  always  it  was  some 
one  going  down  with  the  seas  clapping 
over  him.  She  said  the  sea  was  hungry 
and  cruel,  Ben,  having  her  fancies,  poor 
woman.  She  used  to  tell  a-whispering, 
how  she  could  hear  the  big  seas  mad  and 
raging  all  about  her,  and  at  other  times 
little  waves  on  the  beach,  like  a  beast 
sipping  and  licking  its  lips.  Fancies  she 
had  very  odd.  And  when  you  were  born 
it  came  back  again,  but  only  for  a  few 
weeks.  And  other  whiles  it  has  been  as 
we  see  now,  quite  right.  But  she  would 
so  shrink  and  tremble  at  any  speaking 
of  the  sea  that  we  quit  saying  anything, 
as  you  know  well,  and  I  hope  and  trust 
18 


The  Commodore  Inn. 

she  has  had  no  pain  from  that,  nor  looked 
upon  salt  water,  these  twenty  years. 

"  So  now  it's  put  to  you,  Ben,  for  you 
want  to  go  out  with  me,  and  I'm  think- 
ing for  the  matter  of  the  war  she'd  be  no 
more  than  other  women  perhaps,  but  for 
the  rest  it's  different.  And  now  we've 
put  it  to  you,  we'll  ask  what  you  think." 

I  was  fumbling  with  my  jacket,  strug- 
gling not  to  see  how  the  case  stood,  which 
nevertheless  seemed  clear  enough,  and 
my  eyes  were  hot  with  thinking  of  things 
greater  and  stranger  than  I  had  known  be- 
fore, "I  think  as  you  do,"  I  said  at  last, 
as  stiff  and  steady  as  I  could  make  out. 

"Aye,"  said  he,  "and  that's  all  right. 
But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think.  We've 
been  saying,  he  and  I,  it  might  come  all 
right  in  time,  and  if  a  Ben  Benson  Cree 
must  be  a  landsman  after  all  he  should 
have  the  credit  of  seeing  the  thing  for 
himself,  and  what  was  reasonable  and 
right.  That's  how  we  put  it.  But  now 
19 


Bennle  Ben  Crce. 

it's  been  many  years,  and  a  man  can't 
tell  but  things  may  be  quiet,  and  she 
might  make  no  trouble  at  all.  A  man 
can't  tell,  now,  can  he?  " 

"Why,  no,"  my  father  burst  in  ner- 
vously. "How  can  he?  We  put  it  to 
you,  how  can  he?  " 

"And  it's  a  job  I  don't  hanker  for,  but 
I'm  going  to  do  it  for  you,  Ben,  sort  of 
hitch  it  in  with  conversation,  sort  of  by 
the  way." 

"That's  it,"  said  my  father.  "You 
hitch  it  in  sort  of  by  the  way." 

My  uncle  stood  up,  buttoned  his  coat, 
and  went  softly  from  the  room. 

My  father  sat  quite  silent,  but  his  face 
was  full  of  trouble  and  fear,  like  that  of 
a  child  who  is  frightened  at  the  wind  or 
the  dark,  though  in  a  bodily  sense  I  sup- 
pose he  was  a  man  that  never  feared  any- 
thing. He  pawed  his  great  beard  with  a 
shaking  hand,  a  hand  bigger  than  mine 
is  now,  which  is  no  small  affair. 
30 


The  Commodore  Inn. 

So  we  waited  for  a  time  that  no  doubt 
seemed  longer  than  it  was;  I  do  not 
know  how  long,  or  what  Uncle  Benson 
said  by  way  of  conversation.  But  at  last 
there  was  a  sudden  cry  and  something 
fell,  jarring  the  floor  with  a  dull,  soft 
sound. 

My  father  jumped  forward.  I  shot 
past  him  and  up  the  stairway,  he  strug- 
gling and  thumping  behind  with  his 
crutch.  In  the  sewing-room  Uncle  Ben- 
son was  lifting  my  mother  to  the  sofa. 
She  lay  with  her  hands  to  her  face,  mur- 
muring, moaning,  in  a  swift  incessant 
way  to  make  one  shiver,  with  her  pretty 
bright  hair  loose  on  her  forehead. 

"  Here ! "  cried  my  uncle,  sharply. 
"  Tell  her  it  won't  be.     Quick,  boy ! " 

I  fell  on  my  knees  beside  her  crying : 

"  I'll  never  go,  if  you  don't  like,  never, 
never ! " 

The  murmuring  and  moaning  ceased 
gradually.  She  took  both  hands  from 
21 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

her  face  and  put  them  around  my  neck, 
and  my  father  and  Uncle  Benson,  bend- 
ing over  her,  gave  a  great  sigh  that  was 
like  a  sob,  both  together;  and  looking 
up  I  saw  my  father  gripping  the  other's 
shoulder,  as  if  to  hold  himself  up. 

"Two  fools,  Tom,  two  fools,"  said 
Uncle  Benson  grimly. 

Then  my  father  did  what  I  think  was 
an  odd  thing,  but  keen;  for  he  stumped 
over  to  the  cupboard  and  brought  out  the 
backgammon  board.  And  there  they 
played  backgammon  it  might  be  an  hour, 
making  their  points  vigorously  with 
great  racket,  as  if  nothing  else  could  in- 
terest them,  my  mother  the  while  holding 
hard  to  my  rough  head. 

So  the  Saratoga  sailed  away  in  due 
time,  and  left  me  behind  to  make  a  poor 
pretense  at  books,  but  to  get  along  better 
when  the  summer  came,  with  helping  in 
the  business  of  the  inn. 
S3 


CHAPTER  II. 

LACRIM^  EEKUM — THE   THREE  MEN  IN 
THE  PUBLIC. 

It  was  in  the  latter  part  of  September 
that  I  first  observed  the  three  strangers 
at  the  comer  table  in  the  public  room, 
though  they  may  have  been  there  before. 
Afterwards,  whenever  passing  through,  I 
would  look  for  them,  and  they  were 
noticeable  men;  the  eldest  of  the  three 
an  easy-looking  gentleman  with  an  air  of 
commanding  and  greyish  hair  and  beard : 
the  second,  who  always  sat  beside  him 
against  the  wall,  was  odd  and  humorous 
in  his  manner  and  had  a  look  of  imper- 
turbable happiness,  round  faced,  smooth- 
shaven,  with  straight  hair  and  rather 
long,  thin  lips  sticking  out  when  some- 
thing amused  him,  a  well-muscled,  large- 
23 


Bennie   Ben    Cree. 

framed  man;  the  third  stranger  always 
sat  opposite  the  others,  with  his  back  and 
square,  slender  shoulders  to  the  rest  of 
the  room.  And  when  all  three  men  were 
there,  the  first  two  seemed  to  talk  to  the 
third  loudly  and  genially ;  but  sometimes 
these  two  came  alone,  and  then  they 
talked  to  each  other  and  were  more 
quiet. 

One  afternoon  I  stood  within  the  door 
that  led  from  the  long  verandah  to  the 
hall  and  floor  above,  the  door  of  the 
public  close  beside  it ;  and  my  father  was 
asleep  in  his  chair  far  at  the  other  end  of 
the  verandah. 

I  heard  the  three  strangers  come  to 
the  door  of  the  public,  heard  the  third 
say  good-by,  not  two  yards  from  my  ear, 
and  go  down  the  steps  briskly.  And  in 
a  moment  the  elder  stranger  spoke  thus 
in  a  drawling  way : 

"He's  close,  Dan,  he  is.  He  takes  a 
man's  confidence  like  it  belonged  to  him 
24 


The  Three  Men  in  the  Public. 

natchully,  but  he  don't  appear  to  have 
any  opinion  on  it.     Hey  ?  " 

"Folks  are  diff'ent,  cap,"  said  the 
other  blandly.  "You  don'  expect  a 
te'apin  to  open  hisself.  He  can't  'ithout 
bustin',  an'  he  may  be  a  very  good  sort  of 
te'apin  an'  a  warm-hearted  te'apin.  An' 
another  man  comes  along  whoopin',  'How 
d'ye  do!  Here's  me.  Who  are  you?' 
like  he  couldn't  help  his  candor.  Ever 
hear  o'  the  snake  in  the  gyarden  o'  Eden, 
cap?     He  was  very  co'dial,  that  snake." 

"Still,"  said  the  first,  "I  shan't  open 
on  him  till  the  time  comes.  He  can 
have  his  choice  then," 

"As  how,  cap?" 

"Not  here.     OIT  shore." 

With  that  they  went  down  the  steps 
also.  My  father  woke  with  the  noise, 
and  they  nodded  to  him  pleasantly. 

After  a  time  Tony,  the  waiter  in  the 
public,  came  out  and  winked  at  me 
wonderfully. 

25 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

"  Those  fellies  is  fittin'  a  ship,"  he  said. 
"  Say,  she's  jus'  goin'  in  der  navvy  yard. 
Say,  I  hear  'em  tell  she's  a  keener." 

My  father  only  gazed  down  the  slip 
with  absent,  pathetic  eyes,  thinking,  as 
always,  those  September  days,  of  what 
was  slipping  away  from  us  in  the  white- 
curtained  room  above  that  looked  out  on 
the  garden. 

When  I  think  of  the  thing  we  call 
death  in  a  general  way,  spelling  it  maybe 
with  a  capital,  it  never  seems  to  me  a 
going  down  at  sea — and  I  have  seen  that 
— or  any  violent  accident,  but  it  seems 
like  a  white-curtained  room  with  a  little 
breeze  blowing  the  curtain  in,  and  out- 
side you  hear  the  rattle  and  mutter  of  the 
city,  as  though  it  were  making  comments 
on  the  matter  in  a  hoarse  undertone.  A 
broad  white  bed  is  near  the  wall,  the 
doctor  and  nurse  are  sometimes  in  and 
out  of  the  room,  and  on  the  pillows  is  a 
thin  white  face  with  the  hair  drawn 
26 


Lacrimae   Rerum. 

neatly  back.  The  lips  are  moving  with 
a  faint  sound,  and  the  eyes  look  out  softly 
and  peacefully,  at  me  kneeling  beside, 
and  my  father  sitting  with  his  chin  on 
his  crutch  and  his  beard  rumpled.  There 
is  a  lost  look  in  his  eyes,  wide  and 
lonely ;  like  a  man  iimler  whom  a  ship  is 
going  down  at  sunset,  who  sees  the  sun 
for  the  last  time  and  the  red  clouds  doing 
his  burial  service.  My  mother  is  speak- 
ing ;  her  voice  is  not  like  any  sound  that 
seems  natural  to  the  earth,  but  thin, 
creeping,  and  slow,  like  the  mists  you  see 
in  the  early  morning  that  cling  and 
whisper  to  slack  sails. 

"You  were  always  my  big  boy,  Tom," 
she  says,  "like  Ben,  only  bigger." 

"Ben's  growing,"  says  my  father, 
hoarsely. 

"You'll  not  remember  it  against  me, 

Ben,  for  it  was  not    I.     And  he   shall 

go  to  sea,  Tom,  remember,  like  all  the 

Bensons  and  Crees,  all  sailing  folk  and 

27 


Bennie  Ben  Crce. 

proud  to  be,  proud  to  be  all  sailing  folk. 
But  I'm  glad  you're  not  a  woman,  Ben, 
for  the  sea's  hard  on  women,  very  hard." 
When  I  went  to  school  in  the  brick 
schoolhouse  on  Willet  Street  I  studied 
Latin  in  a  green -covered  book  of  selec- 
tions, which  for  the  most  part  I  greatly 
disliked.  There  was  a  passage  ending 
with  these  words,  "  sunt  lacrimse  rerum  " ; 
and  what  "lacrima3  rerum  "  means  I  find 
less  easy  to  say  in  common  English  than 
I  did  then,  when  we  called  it  "  the  tears  of 
things,"  and  appeared  to  satisfy  the  master 
with  that.  But  now  I  suppose  it  might 
mean,  there  is  a  hidden  sorrow  in  the 
middle  of  God's  universe  that  likely  has 
been  there  always.  However  it  may  be, 
I  suppose  it  quite  beyond  a  plain  man  to 
describe  his  idea  of  the  matter.  But 
whenever  I  think  of  those  words,  "  lacrimse 
rerum,"  they  sound  to  me  as  if  spoken  in 
my  mother's  voice,  sighing,  plaintive,  and 
moving  away  from  me ;  or  as  if  she  might 
2d 


Lacrimas  Rerum. 

have  meant  the   same  thing  in   saying, 
"The  sea's  hard  on  women,  very  hard." 

The  wind  blew  the  curtain  in  so  that 
it  wavered  in  the  room.  "Lacrimie  re- 
rum.  The  sea's  hard  on  women/  a  kind 
of  sighing  sound  that  moved  far  and  far 
away. 

It  was  now  come  to  the  latter  part  of 
November,  and  about  the  middle  of  a 
certain  morning  I  heard  Tony  calling  my 
name.  At  my  coming  he  winked  in  a 
manner  to  make  me  think  he  knew  all 
about  something,  only  that  he  always 
winked  to  show  his  knowingness,  whether 
he  knew  anything  or  not.  He  pointed 
with  his  thumb  to  the  door  of  the  inn 
parlour,  where  I  went  in,  and  found  my 
father  sitting  with  the  three  strangers. 

Their  names,  as  I  came  to  hear  them, 

were  these:  the  eldest.  Captain  Cavarly; 

the  odd-looking  one,   Mr.  Dan  Morgan; 

and   the   third,    Mr.    Sabre    Calhoun — a 

29 


Bcnnie  Ben   Cree. 

curious  name,  and  he  was  tall  and  thin, 
and,  like  his  name,  not  to  be  quickly 
forgotten.  Indeed,  he  was  a  man  I  never 
understood,  and,  seeing  that  I  came  to 
have  such  chances  of  knowing  him  as  do 
not  commonly  fall  between  men,  there 
must  have  been  something  odd  with  him 
or  with  me.  He  had  sandy  hair,  and 
grey  eyes  that  seemed  very  lively  and 
shrewd. 

"I  make  you  acquainted  with  these 
gentlemen,"  said  my  father,  "if  the  cap- 
tain don't  mind  your  hearing  his  yam," 

"Shuly,"  said  he,  with  a  fine  wave  of 
his  hand.     "  Glad  to  know  you. " 

Mr.  Calhoun  nodded. 

"Why,  why,"  said  Mr.  Morgan,  look- 
ing at  my  red-  cheeks.  "You  ain't  got 
any  liver  complaint.  Well,  sir,  when  I 
was  so  old  I  used  to  bust  the  seams  o' 
my  clo'es,  an*  it  hurt  my  feelins  te'ible. 
I  grew  like  a  yellow  punkin,  ve'y  simi- 
lar." 

SO 


The  Three  Men  in  the  Public. 

The  captain  went  on  with  the  story, 
which  my  coming  had  interrupted. 

"Well,  sir,  then  I  started  for  Wash- 
ington in  a  hurry,  to  see  the  Sec'etary  o' 
the  Navy,  an  ol'  gen'lman  from  hereabout 
'ith  a  beard  like  a  palm  leaf  fan,  yes,  sir; 
an'  I  said  to  him,  'Sir,  this  country  is 
fairly  leakin  'ith  pat'iotism.  Here's 
parties,  that  don't  wish  their  names 
known  for  private  reasons — say  they're 
Baltimore  parties,  but  they  want  me  to 
tell  you,  'Here's  the  Octarara  in  Balti- 
more docks,  small  and  steady,  steam  ten 
knots,  an'  here's  Cavarly  an'  Dan  Morgan 
knowin'  the  coast  better'n  Webster's 
Primer  consid'able.  Let  the  Gove'nment 
commission  her,  an'  Cavarly  an'  Dan'll 
raise  the  crew  an'  run  her  for  high  an' 
mighty?  An'  there  you  are,  sir.'  An' 
there  he  was,  that  ol'  gen'lman  'ith  the 
palm  leaf  beard,  calm  as  a  fish  in  his 
natchul  element,  an'  me  bustin'  'ith  glory. 

"'The  Gove'nment  doesn't  commission 
31 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

privateers,'  he  says.  '  Do  I  understand 
the  parties  offer  this  vessel  to  the  Gove'n- 

ment?     In  that  case '     Then  I  saw 

of  co'se  it  would  have  to  be  all  regular, 
an'  quite  right  he  was  though  too  much 
like  ref 'ige'ated  fish,  an'  I  inte'upted  him. 
'The  parties  wouldn'  be  satisfied  unless 
Morgan  an'  I  sailed  her,  bein'  sort  of  in 
it  ourselves ' 

"  'In  fact  you  are  the  parties,'  said  he. 

"I  said,  'Not  altogther.  But  it  would 
be  like  this,  sir.  If  we  offer  the  Oc- 
tarara,  an'  the  Gove'nment  puts  her  in 
commission,  and  furnishes  equipments, 
arms,  ammunition,  mess,  the  parties 
might  see  it  was  only  right  the  Gov'n- 
ment  should  put  in  its  own  crew,  quite 
regular,  especially  gunners,  sir.  Sir,'  I 
said,  'I  reckon  I  can  take  the  Octarara 
into  the  back  dooryard  of  Virginia  closer'n 
most,  but  put  it  you  wanted  to  target 
practice  on  the  back  door — I'm  no  gun- 
ner myself.' 

33 


The  Three  Men  in  the  Public. 

" '  Ah,'  he  says,  '  but  you're  not  in  the 
service  now.  That  will  of  co'se  be  neces- 
sa'y.  Well,  sir,  the  Administ'ation  ap- 
preciates your  gen'osity,'  he  says.  '  You'll 
convey  the  Administ'ation's  thanks  to 
these  myste'ous  parties,'  he  says,  looking 
extraor'nary  calm  an'  fishy.  An'  I  goes 
back  to  Baltimore  feelin'  a  trifle  damp, 
but  still  pat'iotic.  Well,  sir,  they're 
prompt  at  that  Department,  if  they  are 
damp.  In  three  days  I  got  orders  to 
take  the  Octarara  up  here  to  be  fitted  out 
an'  commissioned  an'  manned,  an'  instead 
of  a  family  party  there  won't  be  but  four 
Baltimore  men  aboard  her." 

"They  couldn't  have  anything  that 
looked  like  privateering,"  said  my  father, 
after  a  pause,  "with  a  lot  of  Confederate 
privateers  locked  up  in  the  Tombs  here 
for  piracy." 

"Tha's  what  I  said  to  Dan.  'Twasn't 
reason  to  be  sure.  Dan  wanted  the 
family  party  i  but  he  saw  reason,  an' 
38 


Bcnnie  Ben  Crec. 

brought  the  Octarara  up,  an'  I  came 
later,  an'  here  we  are,  bustin'  'ith  pat'iot- 
ism  and  ordered  to  Hampton  Eoads, 
maybe  they  know  when.  I  don't  my- 
self." 

"Yes,  sir,"  broke  in  Mr.  Morgan. 
"  They  do  say  huntin'  blockade  is  like  a 
dog  after  fleas,  respectin'  their  liveliness, 
ve'y  similar ;  him  not  knowin'  where  they 
are  till  he's  bit." 

Captain  Cavarly  seemed  to  disapprove 
of  this  saying,  glancmg  sharply  at  Mr. 
Morgan,  whether  because  he  felt  it  a  slur 
on  the  navy,  or  for  another  reason,  I 
could  not  guess  at  that  time;  moreover, 
they  all  now  fell  to  looking  at  me  in- 
quiringly, which  made  me  nervous  and 
out  of  countenance. 

"  I'll  have  to  refer  you  to  the  p'oper 
official,  Mr.  Cree,"  said  Cavarly. 

"Ben,  boy,"  said  my  father,  in  a  voice 
quickly  growing  husky,  while  his  eyes 
looked  dim  and  sad,  "  your  uncle  advises 
34 


The  Three  Men  in  the  PubUc. 

you  ship  naval  apprentice,  and  he  thinks 
you're  as  well  not  aboard  the  Saratoga  as 

yet." 

"He's  quite  right,  sir,"  said  Cavarly. 
"There  was  no  favo'itism  where  I  learned 
seamanship. " 

"  Man  can't  throw  the  necessa'y  belay  in' 
pins  at  his  relative,"  said  Mr.  Morgan. 
"It  lace'ates  the  feelin's." 

"  And  Captain  Cavarly  is  good  enough 
to " 

"Oh,  tha's  all  right,  tha's  all  right." 

"He'll  see  if  he  can't  get  you  a  berth 
with  him,  if  you  like,  Ben,  supposing 
you  feel  that  way." 

My  father  paused,  looking  troubled 
and  im certain,  while  Cavarly  murmured, 
"  Tha's  all  right,"  soothingly,  and  Morgan, 
"Don'  lace'ate  the  feelin's." 

For   me,    I   felt  bewildered,   and  my 

heart  seemed  to  be  pumping  my  head  full 

of  confusion,  so  that  I  stammered,  saying 

I  would  go.     Then  Cavarly  and  Morgan 

35 


Bennie  Ben  Crec. 

and  my  father  went  on  talking,  while 
Calhoun  sat  quietly  listening,  and  I  was 
content  enough  to  have  no  further  notice 
taken  of  me. 

So  it  came  about  that  I  went  with 
my  father  and  Captain  Cavarly  that 
afternoon,  and  climbed  to  a  little  upstairs 
office,  where  an  orderly  stood  within  the 
door;  and  there  I  was  examined  and  en- 
tered a  naval  apprentice,  with  the  privi- 
lege of  full  seamanship  in  a  year,  all  the 
while  in  that  state  of  excitement  I  would 
not  have  known  the  difference  if  they 
had  listed  me  a  porpoise  with  the  privi- 
lege of  becoming  a  whale. 

And  afterwards  we  went  by  ferry  to  the 
navy  yard,  and  saw  the  Octarara  lying 
in  dock,  two-masted,  side-wheeled,  as 
steaming  vessels  mostly  were  in  those 
days;  neat  though  small;  it  might  be 
less  than  two  hundred  tons,  but  a  wonder 
in  my  eyes  and  very  threatening  to  the 
Southern  Confederacy.  There  seemed  to 
36 


The  Three  Men  in  the  Public. 

be  little  doing  on  the  Octarara,  though 
the  yard  was  full  of  noise  and  bustle. 
We  found  Morgan  playing  a  banjo  in  the 
cabin  and  singing: 

"This  world  is  full  o'  trouble  an'  sin; 
Don'  keep  me  mournin'  here,  O  Lord  1 
Don'  keep  me  mournio'  long." 

"Howdy,  Mr.  Cree,"  he  said.  "The 
cap'en,  he's  troubled  because  we  ain' 
goin'  to  be  fit  in  time  to  crush  the  South- 
ern Confede'acy.  It's  the  sins  an'  sor- 
rows o'  this  world  troubles  me.  'Don' 
keep  me  mournin'  long.'  Your  son,  sir, 
hasn't  the  liver  complaint?  " 

And,  seeing  Cavarly  looking  at  him 
uneasily,  he  fell  to  playing  his  banjo 
again. 

The  captain's  trouble,  which  Morgan 
spoke  of,  lest  the  Octarara  should  not  be 
fit  in  time  to  crush  the  Confederacy, 
seemed  to  me  more  and  more  natural. 
For  the  weeks  went  by,  and  the  yard  all 
37 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

the  time  rushed  with  work,  and  it  seemed 
a  slight  on  the  Octarara,  that  wonderful 
craft,  that  they  passed  her  by  in  the  way 
of  preparation.  December  slipped  away. 
On  Christmas  Day  my  father  had  the 
captains,  Morgan  and  Calhoun,  up  to  a 
handsome  dinner,  where  there  was  great 
exchange  of  cordiality,  and  much  grum- 
bling at  the  delay,  with  great  comfort 
taken  out  of  the  grumbling. 

It  was  notable  how  gladly  we  listened 
to  Calhoun.  The  captain  particularly 
seemed  to  ponder  on  what  he  said,  and 
turn  it  over  in  his  mind,  as  if  looking  for 
a  secret  meaning.  The  great  variety  of 
Calhoun's  information  was  odd  in  one 
not  very  old  in  years,  and  especially  his 
knowledge  of  foreign  lands  and  seas, 
trade  lines  and  ocean  navigation  at  large, 
whereas  I  gathered  that  Cavarly  had  never 
been  beyond  coasting  trade. 

Calhoun  in  his  talk  let  himself  be 
easily  led  to  speak  of  the  South  Atlantic, 
38 


The  Three  Men  in  the  Public. 

and  what  amount  of  American  shipping 
was  found  there.  And  all  through  it  ran 
the  stream  of  his  personal  adventure,  from 
which  I  thought,  even  so  early  in  my 
knowledge  of  him,  that  seldom  was  so 
foolhardy  a  man,  to  walk  into  any  danger 
or  adventure,  wherever  he  could  find  it, 
and  walk  out  again  when  ready  to  do  so. 
Indeed,  I  think  this  of  Calhoun,  and  may 
say  so  now,  that  he  was  never  so  pleased 
and  satisfied,  as  when  edging  along  in  some 
peculiar  and  perilous  circumstance,  and 
that  he  would  go  far  out  of  his  way  to 
find  that  circumstance.  It  is  a  secret  hid 
in  the  nature  of  many  that  they  love 
nothing  better  than  the  chance  to  fight 
skilfully  for  their  own  lives,  and  seek 
this  chance  by  jungles,  glaciers,  and  high 
seas.  But  I  never  knew  one  who  sought 
it  more  inquisitively  than  Calhoun. 

In  January   Cavarly  went  away,  and 
was    gone,  it    might    be,  a    week,  but 
whether  to  Washington  or  Baltimore  he 
39 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

did  not  say.  Morgan  said  he  was  "  after 
a  list  of  Southern  cities  desirable  to  bom- 
bard." 

And  it  was  the  17th  of  February  when 
we  stood  out  into  the  river  at  last.  My 
father  was  among  a  crowd  of  people 
cheering  on  the  dock  in  the  Wallabout 
Canal. 

The  wind  was  blowing  bitter  and  cold, 
and  cakes  of  ice  were  floating  about  us, 
as  we  slid  into  the  bay  after  a  tug  that 
made  a  great  swash  and  tumult  in  front. 
But  the  sky  was  as  clear  as  if  it  were  the 
first  and  newest  of  all  days. 


40 


CHAPTER   III. 

DOWN   THE    COAST — CAVARLY'S   PLAN. 

The  Octarara  might  have  ranked  as  a 
gunboat  or  a  second-class  cruiser,  and  it 
might  be  the  Government  did  not  rank 
her  ver)'  high,  for  the  only  regular  mili- 
tary aboard  were  three  gunners  and  Simp- 
son, chief  gunner.  Cavarly  made  Simp- 
son master-at-arms,  and  set  him  drilling 
the  crew,  and  left  him  mostly  alone  at  it. 
Himself  and  Morgan,  who  ranked  as 
mate,  seemed  to  take  no  part  in  it,  but  to 
look  on  in  a  pleased  kind  of  way,  and 
find  it  quite  amusing.  They  sailed  the 
ship,  with  the  other  two  Baltimore  men, 
Gerry  and  Still,  steersmen,  and  the  en- 
gineers and  stokers  did  nothing  but  oil 
cranks  and  polish  brass.  Por  Cavarly 
appeared  to  be  in  no  hurry,  nor  anxious 
41 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

to  use  up  coal,  and  nobody  minded  that, 
except  Simpson.  I  did  not  like  Simpson. 
Neither  did  Simpson  like  the  Octarara, 
nor  anything  about  her,  and  this  with 
his  falling  foul  of  me  immediately  made 
me  think  him  a  person  impossible  to 
please. 

"Cap'n  Cavarly,"  said  Simpson,  "beg- 
gin'  your  pardon,  does  that  there  boy  be- 
long fore  or  aft? " 

"I  reckon  he  belongs  to  you,"  said 
Cavarly  cheerfully.  "Discipline.  Tha's 
it.     Discipline. " 

"  Git  f or'ard,  you  young  pup !  "  cried 
Simpson,  "ef  you'll  'low  me,  cap'n.  Pick 
up  them  lanyards.     You  hear  me ! " 

"  Haw,  haw !  "  said  Cavarly  softly,  and, 
looking  back  with  furtive  eyes  from  a 
safe  distance,  I  saw  Dan  Morgan  also  and 
Calhoun  by  the  taffrail  laughing,  and  I 
thought  it  treacherous  and  unfriendly. 

The  next  four  days  and  nights  I  was 
hating  Simpson  busily,  and  wishing  the 
42 


Down  the  Coast. 

deep  sea  between  him  aud  me.  We  were 
ever  and  again  up  to  "repel  boarders," 
and  notMng  in  sight  but  the  blank  sea, 
or  maybe  a  glimpse  of  the  low  peaceful 
Jersey  coast.  Seeing  me  idle  or  in  any 
way  happy  put  Simpson  in  a  mad  rage ; 
but  I  could  wish  that  gruff  warrant  offi- 
cer no  worse  ill  luck  than  such  a  raw  and 
mixed  crew  as  ours  to  put  in  shape,  with 
a  captain  and  mate  appearing  to  regard 
him  as  a  joke  and  taking  no  responsi- 
bility themselves.  What  could  be  more 
distressful  to  such  a  man  than  to  have 
for  superior  officers  Dan  Morgan,  playing 
his  banjo  half  the  day;  Cavarly,  looking 
on  v/ith  an  everlasting  cigar,  and  a  mys- 
terious gentleman  supercargo  like  Cal- 
houn? 

The  wind  was  clean  and  steady,  and 
Cavarly  kept  the  Octarara  close  reefed, 
at  half  her  speed;  she  crept  down  the 
coast  with  little  shift  of  sail  day  or  night, 
and  on  the  20  th  passed  some  fifteen  miles 
43 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

to  seaward  of  Delaware  Bay.  Except 
for  Simpson  drilling  and  roughing,  it  was 
an  idle  enough  crew. 

I  was  not  so  ignorant  of  sailing — what 
with  knocking  about  wharves  and  han- 
dling catboats  on  the  river — as  not  to 
know  that  Cavarly  was  purposely  taking 
his  time;  and  if  I  had  been,  the  talk  in 
the  forecastle  would  have  set  me  thinking, 
though  for  that  matter  I  did  not  know 
that  the  forecastle  always  criticizes  the 
cabin,  as  one  of  the  rights  of  labour.  I 
did  not  think  much  of  Simpson's  opin- 
ion, through  simple  dislike,  beginning 
things  with  such  general  misjudgment  of 
men  as  maybe  is  the  case  with  most ;  but 
Simpson  was  not  alone  in  thinking  the 
conduct  of  the  cabin  peculiar. 

After  the  morning  drill  exercise  on  the 
20th  there  were  more  black-clay  pipes 
going  around  the  small  safety  stove  in 
the  forecastle  than  could  be  counted  in 
the  smoke.  A  dingy  place,  the  forecastle, 
44 


Down  the  Coast, 

at  best,  but  one  that  a  man  may  grow  to 
like  well  enough,  if  not  over-squeamish. 
Simpson  was  there,  and  Gerry,  and  the 
bos'en,  Hames,  and  an  Irishman  named 
Tobin,  whose  hair  was  red  and  thin. 

"  Will  we  get  there,  do  ye  think,  Jim- 
mie  Hames  ?  "  said  Tobin. 

"  "Where  ? " 

"Aw,  beyaut.  Will  it  be  while  we're 
still  young  ? " 

"  It  ain't  that  we  won't  git  there,"  said 
Hames  slowly.  "It's  why  the  ol'  man 
don't  want  to  git  there  soon  as  he  kin. 
He  don't,  an'  that's  straight.  Here's 
Gerry  now,  that  corned  with  him  from 
Baltimore.  I  asks  him  now,  why  don't 
he?" 

Gerry  puffed  deliberately. 

"Why,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  come  f'om 
Baltimore.  I  don't  deny  it,  do  I?  But 
if  you  asks,  why  don't  he?  I  says,  I 
reckon  he  has  sec'et  orders.  But,  I  says, 
he  never  showed  'em  to  me.  An',"  he 
45 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

went  on  with  ponderous  scorn,  "the 
Sec'etary  o'  the  Navy  come  f  om  Connec- 
ticut, same  as  you.  Wha'd  he  tell  you 
them  sec'et  orders  was,  when  you  took 
dinner  with  him  an'  was  int'oduced  to 
three  rear  admirals  ?  " 

"  Orders !  "  growled  Simpson.  "  That's 
all  right.  He  can  hitch  his  hawser  to  a 
porpoise,  if  he's  ordered.  What's  my 
business?  That  ain't.  But  what  does 
the  Government  do  next?  Why  they 
commissions  the  porpoise.  Course  they 
do.  It's  politics.  Makes  volunteer  na- 
val officers  as  don't  know  a  shell  from  a 
round  shot  till  it  busts  in  their  ear.  An' 
that  ain't  my  business  either.     Oh,  no !  " 

"Easy,  gunner,  easy,"  said  Gerry,  who 
was  a  slow,  heavy  man.  "  I  don't  know 
sec'et  orders  natchuUy,  but  I  hears  talk. 
1  hears  like  this.  I  hears  this  boat's 
offered  the  Gove'nment  by  parties  for  a 
birthday  present,  supposin'  Cavarly's 
cap'n  an'  the  Gove'nment  fits  her  out. 
46 


Down  the  Coast. 

An'  the  Gove'nment  says,  'Hum,'  says 
he,  '  is  he  competent?'  '  None  better,' 
says  they, '  for  coast  sailin'.  'An'  there's 
Dan  Morgan,'  says  they,  'sailed  the  Dela- 
ware an'  southe'n  tidewater  these  twenty 
years.'  '  But,'  says  the  Gove'nment, 
'  there  might  be  a  disagreement  with  the 
enemy,'  says  he,  speakin'  sa'castic. 
'  There  you  have  us,'  says  the  parties. 
*  Give  him  a  master-at-arms  an'  gunners.' 
'Ah!'  says  the  Gove'nment.  'Jus'  so. 
Take  Simpson,'  says  he,  an'  cuts  a  caper, 
bein'  that  pleased.  Now  I  asks,  what's 
t'oublin'  you?  Ain't  you  competent? 
Ain't  the  cap'n  standin'  off  an'  givin'  you 
free  board?  Ain't  you  as  good  as  a  com- 
missioned officer,  barrin'  fo'c'stle  bunk? 
What's  t'oublin'  you?  That's  what  I 
asks." 

Simpson  grumbled,  but  in  a  mollified 
way. 

"  I  ain't  sayin'  he  can't  handle  the  ship." 
"Cap'n  Cavarly,"  said   Hames,  "is   a 
47 


Bennie  Ben   Cree 

good  man  I  make  no  doubts,  an'  comin' 
from  Maryland  his  principles  is  a  credit 
to  him." 

"I  come  from  Maryland." 

"Sartain,  sartain,"  said  Hames,  sooth- 
ingly, "an'  your  principles  is  a  credit  to 
you." 

"  Glad  o'  that, "  said  Gerry  in  his  heavy 
manner. 

"But,"  Hames  went  on,  "who's  this 
here  Calhoun?     Tell  me  that." 

"I  do' know." 

"  That's  the  point.  A  chap  in  gen'le- 
man's  shore  clothes,  occupies  a  cabin  an' 
no  words.  Goes  snoopin'  round  like  he 
owned  the  airth.  Looks  like  a  summer 
boarder.  That's  what  I  don't  like.  The 
cap'n  an'  the  mate,  they's  pleasant  chaps. 
I  ain't  down  on  'em.  But  they're  keer- 
less,  ain't  they?  Playin'  banjos  an' 
smokin'  seegars.  They  ain't  suspicious. 
'Taint  their  natur'.  Fellow  comes  along, 
seegars  in  both  pockets,  playin'  the  banjo 
48 


Down   the   Coast. 

with  his  elbow.  Maybe  he  says  he  wants 
to  write  a  book  for  the  glory  of  his  ken- 
try.  Maybe  he  lies.  Acts  friendly  any- 
how. Cap'n  asks  him  to  jine  'em,  bein' 
keerless  an'  happy,  thinkin'  it  might  be 
a  good  thing  for  the  glory  of  his  kentry. 
How  do  we  know,  you  an'  me  ?  " 

"Don't  know,"  murmured  Gerry. 
"Cap'n's  business. 

"  Calhoun ! "  said  Simpson  angrily. 
"  He'd  better  not  come  Calhounin'  round 
me." 

All  that  day  I  could  think  of  nothing 
but  Calhoun,  and  how  he  must  be  a  slip- 
pery villain,  such  as  novels  and  plays 
describe  very  plainly,  and  always  destroy 
in  the  end  to  everyone's  satisfaction.  So 
I  went  on  to  imagining  Ben  Cree  stand- 
ing by  to  distinguish  himself,  as  a  fellow 
of  his  age  should,  according  to  the  story 
books,  where  there  is  apt  to  be  such  a 
one,  remarkably  young,  with  his  pockets 
full  of  virtue  and  talent,  and  missing  his 
49 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

destiny  unless  he  can  find  a  rascal  to 
surprise  with  his  virtue  and  talent.  The 
only  trouble  was  that  Ben  Cree  was  a 
numskull.  I  had  gotten  so  far  in  the 
plot  as  to  see  without  doubt  that  Calhoun 
was  a  disguised  Confederate. 

The  Octarara  passed  Cape  Henlopen 
about  noon,  and  drew  in  to  the  low,  sandy 
shore.  By  and  by  Gerry  showed  me 
where  the  Maryland  dividing  line  came 
down. 

The  great  moon  rose — out  of  the  sea 
it  seemed  to  rise — and  it  was  as  if  a  path 
of  bright  metals  were  laid  for  it,  sup- 
posing it  wished  to  step  down  to  the 
Octarara  with  dignity. 

The  air  on  deck  was  cold,  but  not  bit- 
terly so,  the  wind  lessening,  and  the  top- 
sails and  jibs  spread  full.  A  man  or  two 
was  on  the  fore-deck,  looking  landward. 
I  heard  Tobin  saying, 

"  What's  he  drawin'  in  for,  Jimmie  ? " 

"I  do' know." 

50 


Down  the   Coast. 

And  then  Dan  Morgan  aft  called  for 
Simpson. 

More  men  came  on  deck.  Simpson 
went  aft  and  returned. 

"Goin'  to  come  to,"  he  growled. 
"  Says  he's  expectin'  orders.  Durn  likely 
he'll  get  'em  next  month.  What's  my 
business?     That  ain't." 

Simpson  went  below  growling  in  his 
throat. 

"Sec'et  orders,"  said  Gerry  soothingly, 
and  followed  him. 

But  it  was  not  until  late,  and  the  moon 
high  in  the  air,  that  the  anchor  was 
dropped,  with  great  bustle,  in  the  midst 
of  that  strange  quiet  and  brilliance  of  the 
night.  The  shore  could  be  made  out 
now  dimly  under  the  moon,  and  the  soft 
moan  of  beach  waves  be  heard,  so  near  it 
was.  Looking  aft  as  we  went  below  I 
could  see  the  cabin  lights  all  lit  and 
shining  up  the  companionway.  Gerry 
and  Still  stayed  up  on  watch. 
51 


Bcnnie   Ben   Cree. 

I  lay  long  awake  in  my  narrow  bunk, 
not  able  to  sleep  for  foolishness,  and  act- 
ing out  the  plots  of  three  or  four  mixed 
stories.  One  snore  was  added  to  another 
till  the  whole  was  a  rumble  like  the  bass 
of  an  organ.  The  smoky  lantern  hanging 
near  the  scuttle  hardly  swayed,  for  the 
sea  was  very  still. 

After  a  long  time,  it  might  have  been 
an  hour,  I  sat  up  and  wondered  if  I  dared 
go  on  deck.  It  took  me  some  time  to 
decide,  what  with  imagining  Simpson 
waking  up  and  coming  at  me  roaring. 

Even  getting  on  a  pea  jacket  seemed 
an  adventure,  but  done  at  last.  I  crept 
to  the  hatchway,  shoes  in  hand  and  dread- 
ing Simpson,  and  so  up  and  lifted  the 
hatch.  I  wanted  to  get  across  behind 
the  ship's  boat  on  the  port  side,  and  look 
my  iill  at  the  shining  water  and  the  low- 
lying  mysterious  shore;  and  this  I  suc- 
ceeded in  doing.  I  heard  steps  coming 
forward  along  the  main  deck,  and,  peer- 
52 


Down  the   Coast. 

ing  over  the  top  of  the  boat,  seemed  to 
make  out  it  was  Gerry,  a  good-natured 
man,  but  certainly  one  who  would  send 
me  below  where  I  belonged.  I  lifted  a 
loose  edge  of  the  canvas  that  covered  the 
boat,  and  crawled  in,  half  frightened  and 
half  pleased  with  the  excitement  and  con- 
ceit of  the  stratagem ;  much  as  in  earlier 
days  I  used  to  hide  behind  boxes  on  the 
wharf,  when  Mr.  Hooley  went  by  with 
his  buttons  and  club,  and  suppose  myself 
a  criminal  and  Mr.  Hooley  looking  for  me, 
that  large,  friendly  officer. 

Eaising  the  loose  edge  of  canvas  I 
could  see  the  full  sweep  of  the  deck,  and 
sideways  over  the  rail  the  moonlit  water 
and  shore.  I  could  not  see  Gerry,  but 
heard  him  stop  by  the  hatch.  There  he 
seemed  to  stand  quietly.  I  rubbed  my 
fingers  to  warm  them.  It  was  not  un- 
comfortable under  the  thick  canvas. 

On  the  quarter  deck  in  the  bright  light 
of  the  companion  way  was  Still,  as  if  on 
58 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

guard  like  Gerry  by  the  fore  hatch,  and 
by  the  rail,  looking  shorewards,  were 
Cavarly  and  Morgan.  Calhoun  was  not 
to  be  seen.  Cavarly  held  a  red  lantern, 
and  moved  it  once  up  and  down,  once  to 
and  fro,  and  stopped.  Again  up  and 
down,  to  and  fro,  and  stopped.  I  rubbed 
my  fingers,  and  my  scalp  prickled.  I 
wondered  what  he  would  be  doing  with 
a  red  lantern,  like  a  switch  tender;  then 
I  thought  of  Gerry  and  the  "sec'et 
orders. "  Presently  there  would  come  out 
a  boat  to  be  sure.  What  could  Ben  Cree 
ask  better  ?  and  Mr.  Hooley  right  beyond 
question  that  water  thieving  was  low. 

I  peered  from  under  the  edge  of  canvas 
shorewards.  A  red  light  was  there  but  a 
moment,  and  disappeared,  whether  on 
shore  or  in  a  boat,  I  could  not  tell.  And 
so  peering  and  straining,  my  eyes  became 
blurred  with  the  darkness  and  the  glitter 
together,  so  that  red  lights  and  cloudy 
shapes  seemed  to  be  everywhere,  and  I 
64 


Down  the  Coast. 

had  to  rub  them  to  be  sure  it  was  no 
ghost  of  a  three-master,  instead  of  a  heav- 
ily oared  boat  coming  aboard  us. 

But  it  was  coming,  now  plainly  in 
sight,  bringing  the  "sec'et  orders."  Se- 
cret orders!  Boat!  Three  boats  there 
were,  loaded  to  the  water's  edge  with 
men. 

They  came  one  behind  the  other,  noise- 
lessly, without  clatter  or  clang  of  oarlock, 
or  drip  of  blade,  low  in  the  water,  dim  in 
the  moonlight,  three  masses  of  black 
heads  and  shoulders. 

The  oarlocks  and  blades  were  wrapped 
in  cloths  for  muffling,  making  the  rowing 
stiff  but  without  noise. 

Ben  Cree  was  a  scared  one  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  resembled  no  hero  of  his  recol- 
lection, crouching  in  the  ship's  boat,  be- 
wildered, and  not  in  the  least  wishing  to 
jump  out  and  demand  the  surrender  of 
anythiQg  in  sight. 

They  were  wonderfully  quiet.  I  could 
56 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

not  hear  a  whisper,  only  the  tap-tap  of 
feet,  as  they  came  forward  one  by  one 
and  took  stations  about  the  hatch.  Then 
I  heard  Cavarly  speaking,  first  softly, 
then  sharp  and  loud  : 

"Everyone  cover  his  man,  and  stand 
for  orders.     Down  with  you !  " 

They  went  down  with  a  roar,  and  so 
much  confused  noise  rose  up  immediately 
that  I  made  out  but  one  separate  sound, 
the  sharp  crack  of  a  single  pistol.  It  was 
quiet  a  moment,  and  then  only  Cavarly's 
voice  giving  commands.  I  lifted  the 
edge  of  the  canvas  once  more.  The  main 
deck  was  empty,  except  for  one  man  at 
the  gangway.  On  the  quarter  deck  Cal- 
houn was  standing  in  the  light  of  the 
companion.  He  walked  forward  and 
spoke  to  the  man  at  the  gangway. 

A  stream  of  men  were  coming  up  the 
fore  hatch  now,  marching  aft,  two  by  two, 
at  intervals  of  twenty  feet,  and  passing 
quite  near  me.     Simpson  went  first,  his 

56 


Down  the   Coast. 

mouth  working  terribly  with  shame  and 
anger.  The  rear  man  of  each  couple  held 
a  level  pistol,  and  the  moonlight  shone 
on  the  barrel.  Calhoun  came  along  by 
them,  sat  on  the  end  of  the  ship's  boat 
over  me  and  fell  to  whistling  softly. 
Jimmie  Hames  passed,  limping  and  half 
carried.  He  swore  at  Calhoun,  who 
stopped  whistling  a  moment  and  took  it 
up  again.  Each  man  sent  his  prisoner 
down  the  gangway,  and  fell  into  line  with 
his  pistol  lifted  and  ready. 

Cavarly  came  forward,  when  that  was 
settled,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  ship's 
boat. 

"Mr.  Calhoun,"  he  began,  "this  here's 
a  Confede'ate  privateer." 

"So  I  su]3pose.     Very  clever,  captain." 

"  I  hold  letters  of  marque,  quite  regu- 
lar, from  Eichmond." 

"  So  I  suppose. " 

"  So  you  suppose.  Jus'  so.  Will  you 
have  a  cigar? " 

57 


Bennie  Ben   Cree 

Followed  the  sharp  scratching  of  a 
match. 

"  You  don't  call  yourself  a  citizen  of  any- 
thing in  particular,  hey?  You've  sailed 
the  South  Atlantic  conside'able.  I  haven't 
myself.  Tha's  my  point.  But  lookin' 
at  it  as  a  commercial  speculation — tha's 
your  point — why,  I  can  offer  you  the 
regular  qua'ter  deck  commissions,  hey  ?  " 

"As  a  commercial  speculation,"  said 
Calhoun,  "  it's  no  good.  You  get  prizes, 
but  what  then?  You  can't  sell  them. 
Your  ports  are  blocked.  That's  neither 
your  point  nor  mine,  captain." 

"Well — then,  wha's  your  point?  " 

"  I  take  it  you're  out  fighting  according 
to  your  opinions.  That's  your  point.  As 
for  me,  I  see  two  of  my  own.  First, 
you've  laid  out  a  fair  sized  circus  for 
this  cruise.  I  like  circuses.  I'd  rather 
do  a  tight  rope  than  eat. " 

"Jus'  so,"  said  Cavarly  doubtfully. 
"Tha's  right." 

58 


Down   the   Coast 

"  Second  point,  this  crew,  that's  leaving 
\is  unkindly,  is  ready  to  swear  me  up  for 
treason  to  a  man.  They  think  I'm  the 
snake  in  the  grass.  Gerry  told  you 
that." 

"So  he  did!     He  did  that." 

"  Well,  now,  if  you  ask  me,  do  I  swear 
everlasting  something  or  other,  I  say,  no. 
But  if  it  comes  to  go  or  stay,  I  stay,  sup- 
posing 1  have  the  choice.  Those  are  my 
points. " 

"You  ain't  ve'y  cordial,  tha's  a  fact." 

"Speaking  of  points,  however,  is  it 
good  enougli  ? " 

"Oh,  yes!     Good  enough." 

And  the  two  men  rose  and  walked  aft. 
The  three  boats  got  off  quickly.  Simp- 
son, I  think  it  was,  stood  up  in  the 
stern  of  the  last,  and  yelled  something 
hoarse  and  shrieking.  They  slid  away  in 
the  moonlight,  grew  dim  and  dimmer. 
If  anyone  should  ask  why  I  did  not  show 
myself  and  go  ashore  where  I  belonged, 
59 


Bennie  Ben   Crec. 

there  is  no  answer  in  me.  It  might  have 
been  the  foolishness  that  came  natural 
to  me,  or  that,  being  too  astonished  to  do 
anything,  1  did  nothing. 

The  next  thing  I  did  was  nearly  as 
odd.  The  engines  fell  to  groaning  and 
pumping  below  monotonously,  as  their 
steam  came  to  a  head,  and  in  time  all 
bustle  near  me  had  ceased.  And,  being 
healthy  and  tired,  lying  not  uncomforta- 
bly, I  fell  fast  asleep  under  the  close 
canvas  of  the  ship's  boat. 


60 


CHAPTEE   IV. 

i  talk  with  calhoun  and  the  "octa- 
eaea"  goes  east  and  west, 

A  ship's  boat  has  a  flat  board  rimning 
the  length  way  and  well  enough  to  sleep 
on^  but  from  beneath  go  out  ribs  which 
are  prominent  and  sharp.  I  awoke  with 
someone  jerking  and  tipping,  making  my 
dreams  uncomfortable;  and  before  any 
waking  thought  had  come  he  had  banged 
my  head  on  a  rib  of  the  boat,  so  that  I 
yelled  aloud,  and  thought  presently  I 
would  get  up,  and  there  would  be  a  fight. 
But  there  was  none. 

The  dragging  and  tipping  of  the  boat 

stopped,  someone  lifted  the   canvas  and 

pulled  me  out  by  the  collar.     I  stood  on 

the  fore  deck,  blinking  in  the  broad  sun- 

61 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

light  foolishly,  and   around   me  were  a 
group  of  strange  faces. 

"Hi!"  said  one.  "What  is  it?  Take 
it  aft." 

Two  men  shoved  me  along  before  them, 
till  we  came  down  into  the  cabin,  and 
there  were  Cavarly,  Morgan,  and  Calhoun 
taking  breakfast  cheerfully.  Surprised 
they  were  to  see  me,  and  Cavarly  not 
pleased,  but  Morgan  began  to  laugh  won- 
derfully, and  said  I  would  be  the  death 
of  him. 

"Mark  my  words,  you  sinful  young 
oyster.  If  you  don't  die  first  o'  the  liver 
complamt,  you'll  be  the  death  o'  me." 

Cavarly  asked  how  I  came  to  stay 
aboard. 

"Aye,"  he  said,  "you  hadn't  crossed 
my  mind  these  twenty-four  hours,  tha's 
a  fact. " 

I  did  not  like  his  pointing  out  that 
way  how  unimportant  I  was,  and  I  asked 
boldly  where  we  were  going. 
62 


East  and  West. 

"Due  east  now,"  said  Cavarly  gently. 
"Why,  sonny,  we're  goin'  to  dest'oy  com- 
merce down  the  South  Atlantic.  You 
ain't  any  business  here." 

"  You're  goin'  to  attack  the  flag  o'  your 
country,"  said  Morgan,  leaning  forward 
and  wrinkling  his  mouth.  I  grew  very' 
hot  in  the  face  and  shouted  angrily, 

"  I'm  not,  either !  " 

"Yep.  You're  goin'  to  perfo'm  prodi- 
gies o'.  valour  an'  implant  a  tin  sword  in 
the  chest  o'  your  uncle." 

"I  won't!" 

"Yep.  You'll  come  home  cove'd  with 
glory  an'  gore,  an'  a  full-rigged  ship  in 
each  pocket,  an'  be  hung  at  the  Fede'al 
Gove'nment's  expense,  the  rest  o'  your 
relatives  attendin'  the  ce'emony." 

The  captain  and  Calhoun  and  the  two 
men  were  laughing  loudly,  and,  not  being 
able  to  stay  angry  to  any  purpose,  I  said 
nothing,  and  presently  felt  more  calm, 
but  I  thought  I  would  not  mind  being 
63 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

the  death  of  Dan  Morgan.  He  drew  more 
amusement  from  me,  and  my  attacking 
the  flag  of  the  comitry,  than  seemed  right. 

There  was  a  boy  with  a  green  jacket 
in  the  school  on  Willet  Street  once  who 
made  it  plain  that  he  was  for  States' 
Eights.  I  think  he  did  not  know  what 
they  were.  And  we  tied  a  rope  around 
him  and  his  green  jacket,  and  took 
off  the  well-top  in  the  yard,  and  let 
him  down,  so  that  he  came  up  very  wet, 
we  were  that  interested  in  the  subject, 
and  most  of  us  Whigs  or  Free  Soilers, 
without  knowing  what  these  meant  ei- 
ther. You  do  not  have  to  know  what 
politics  mean,  or  patriotism,  or  any  brave 
words,  in  order  to  feel  strongly  about 
them.  But  if  anyone  in  Willet  Street 
had  hinted  himself  able  to  attack  the  flag 
of  his  country,  it  would  have  been  bad 
for  him. 

Cavarly  looked    troubled,  and   rubbed 
his  forehead  with  his  hand. 
64 


East  and  West. 

"Look  here,  Ben.  I  don'  like  this 
business. " 

"Make  him  cabin  boy,"  said  Calhoun. 
"  Land  him  with  the  first  crew  we  cap- 
ture." 

"That's  so.  I  wouldn't  like  to  play  it 
low  on  the  landlord.  He's  a  white  man, 
your  father,  Ben,  hey?  He  ain't  ve'y 
penet'ative,  sort  o'  simple.  But  he's 
hones'.     My!  he's  hones'." 

So  I  became  cabin  boy  on  the  Name- 
less, as  they  called  the  Octarara  now, 
having  smeared  out  the  beautifully  painted 
name  over  the  anchor  holes;  and  I  was 
set  to  very  common  jobs,  to  sweep,  to 
clean,  and  fetch  and  carry  gentlemen's 
meals,  quite  melancholy  at  first  and  dis- 
gusted with  my  luck.  I  was  possessed 
of  a  sense  of  being  loose  and  anchorless  in 
the  world.  I  could  not  feel  my  bearings 
after  so  great  a  revolution.  As  if  the  sky 
and  the  sea  were  to  change  places,  it 
65 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

might  be  questionable  in  a  man's  mind 
whether  it  were  proper  to  walk  on  his 
hands  or  his  feet.  Or,  if  he  enters  a 
strange  city  with  his  north  and  south 
wrong,  he  will  not  easily  make  friends 
with  the  compass  in  that  place. 

Yet  they  all  seemed  inclined  to  make 
it  up  to  me  with  good-nature.  Gerry 
and  Still  would  teach  me  steering,  how  to 
hold  the  wheel  so  that  the  needle  did  not 
waver;  to  feel  the  good  ship  answer  the 
shove  of  my  hand  made  me  feel  as  im- 
portant as  the  north  wind.  Calhoun 
would  call  me  to  come  where  he  sat  in 
the  lee  of  the  cabin  and  talk  with  him,' 
and  while  we  talked  he  would  watch  me 
narrowly.  Cavarly  seemed  to  have  me 
on  his  mind  to  trouble  him,  for  he  had 
taken  a  liking  to  my  father — •"  Not  pene- 
t'ative,  he  ain't,  Ben,  but  he's  hones'." 
And  Dan  Morgan  would  bring  his  banjo 
evenings  by  the  cabin  windows,  and  there 
bellow  at  the  moon  like  a  sick  calf : 
66 


East  and  West. 

"This  world  is  full  o'  trouble  an'  sin, 
Don'  keep  me  mournin'  long ! " 

But  I  did  not  see  why  a  fellow  with 
red  cheeks  like  mine  should  move  him  so 
to  speak  of  the  liver  complaint. 

Cavarly  was  sparing  coal  no  longer. 
The  Nameless  cut  her  way  eastward,  her 
black  snake  of  smoke  streaming  off  be- 
hind. And,  though  the  wind  was  cold 
and  bit  the  skin  of  one's  face  till  it  felt 
like  sharp  medicine  in  the  mouth,  yet  the 
sky  continued  clear.  I  liked  to  watch 
the  foam  of  the  wake,  its  infinite  bub- 
bling, and  the  swarthy,  rumpled  sea, 
stretching  away  all  about  till  the  sky 
came  down  to  it  gracefully  and  both  were 
clamped  together  on  the  horizon.  So 
that  during  those  days,  2 2d,  23d,  and 
24th,  if  I  have  counted  right,  I  cannot 
say  that  I  was  in  great  despair,  though 
plainly  making  a  false  start  and  not  in 
any  way  to  fame  and  fortune. 

Cavarly's  idea  was  to  go  east  a  bit,  and 
67 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

then  turn  sharply  south,  to  fall  in  the 
track  of  commerce  between  the  Northern 
cities  and  South  America,  Cape  Horn, 
and  the  Indian  Ocean,  in  this  manner  to 
escape  the  pursuit  he  expected  would  fol- 
low him,  and  pick  up  prizes  in  seas  where 
there  was  little  likelihood  of  interference. 

The  25th  of  February  broke  with  a 
great  white  mist  everywhere,  clinging  to 
the  sea  in  a  feathery,  sticky  way.  The 
ship  had  turned,  and  was  going  due  south, 
not  at  full  speed  any  longer,  but  quite 
leisurely. 

Calhoun  called  me  where  he  sat  against 
the  rail  that  morning,  tipping  his  chair 
and  smoking,  and  then  fell  to  asking 
how  I  liked  things,  and  how  I  would  get 
home  from  foreign  parts.     He  said : 

"It  seems  to  me,  if  I  were  you,  I 
shouldn't  care  for  South  America.  Seems 
to  me  I'd  prefer  the  United  States  most 
anywhere.  But  you  haven't  the  choice, 
have  you  ?  That's  a  pity. " 
68 


East  and  West. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  I  said  gloomily,  and 
did  not  thank  him  for  putting  in  me 
troubles  and  wishes  that  were  of  no 
use. 

The  deck  now  was  empty,  except  for 
Still  at  the  wheel  some  distance  away. 
Cavarly  was  forward,  and  Morgan  some- 
where below.  Calhoun  went  on  in  a 
quiet,  even  tone: 

"That's  a  pity.  But  a  man  can't  tell, 
you  know,  till  he's  thought  it  over,  can 
he  ?  Why,  I  heard  once  of  a  fellow  that 
wanted  to  go  to  San  Francisco  in  a  ship 
that  was  bound  from  Honolulu  round  the 
Horn.  That  didn't  seem  good  judgment. 
And  yet  he  went  to  'Frisco  all  right. 
How?  Well,  it  was  this  way.  He  sort 
of  thought  it  over/' 

He  smoked  thoughtfully  a  moment, 
then  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  took  out 
a  piece  of  iron  three  inches  long,  and 
looked  at  it  as  if  it  had  been  his  watch, 
lying  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
69 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

"He  sort  of  thought  it  over.  'Now,' 
he  says,  'here's  the  fact:  a  ship  always 
sails  by  the  needle  in  the  compass.  The 
way  she  depends  on  that  measly  little 
thing  is  pathetic.  If  she  wants  to  go 
south,  she  goes  opposite  the  needle.  If 
she  wants  to  go  east  or  west  or  anyhow, 
she  goes  at  proper  angles  with  that  needle. 
It's  singular,  it's  pathetic,  but  it's  true,' 
says  the  fellow  I'm  telling  you  of. 
'Now,'  he  says,  'this  ship  wants  to  go 
south,  and  she  sails  against  the  needle. 
Now,  it  stands  to  reason,  if  I  point  that 
piece  of  ironmongery  west,  this  ship'll 
sail  east,  and  that's  'Frisco.  Don't  it?' 
he  says.  'Why  not?'  Well,  sir,  he 
went  over  that  again,  and  maybe  three  or 
four  times,  and  the  more  he  thought  it 
over  the  more  it  appeared  to  be  correct. 
And  what  did  he  do?  Did  he  stick  a 
pin  into  the  little  thing?  Not  he.  He 
persuaded  it.  He  argued  with  it  accord- 
ing to  its  nature.  He  thought  the  best 
70 


East  and  West. 

way  to  treat  things  was  according  to  their 
nature.  He  took  a  magnet,  which  is  a 
piece  of  iron — um — something  like  this 
one — it  happened  to  look  like  this  one. 
A  magnet  is  a  piece  of  iron,  as  you  might 
say,  with  a  ghost  in  it,  something  sticky 
in  its  vitals.  He  got  a  chance  to  hold 
the  wheel  by  himself.  He  put  that  mag- 
net into  the  binnacle  on  the  little  shelf 
under  the  compass,  on  the  right  side  of  the 
needle,  just  half-way  round  the  circle. 
Course,  if  he'd  wanted  to  go  west  instead 
of  east,  say,  such  a  direction  as  from  here 
to  the  United  States,  he'd  have  put  it  on 
the  left  side  corresponding.  Well,  sir, 
that  magnet,  such  was  the  stickiness  of 
its  vitals,  it  pulled  the  business  end  of 
the  needle  around  plufnb  over  it,  and 
there  it  stayed.  Then  this  fellow  I'm 
telling  you  of.  he  put  the  ship  about, 
taking  caution  not  to  disturb  anyone,  tak- 
ing great  caution,  because  he  thought  it 
wouldn't  be  right  to  disturb  anyone,  and 
71 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

pointed  her  for  'Frisco.  And  that  needle 
kept  on  telling  a  yarn  that  would  have 
made  a  keg  of  nails  blush.  Yes,  sir,  it 
lied  steady  for  twenty-four  days  without 
turning  a  hair — wet  weather  it  was,  or 
xnisty,  like  this — till  they  brought  up  on 
the  coast  of  California,  and  the  fellow  I'm 
telling  you  of,  well,  he  sloped.  Course, 
if  a  ship's  going  south,  and  a  man  can't 
help  himself,  he  can't.  But  this  fellow 
sort  of  thought  it  over,  and  it  seemed  to 
him,  the  needle  being  a  good  liar  and  the 
sun  not  coming  out  to  mess  things,  that 
there  vv^asn't  any  real  need  of  his  going  to 
the  Horn.     That  was  his  opinion." 

A  moment  later  I  was  standing  alone 
by  the  rail  and  staring  blankly  after 
Calhoun,  where  he  strolled  slowly  forward 
and  grew  dim  in  the  mist.  The  little 
piece  of  black  iron  had  got  into  my  hand. 
It  was  no  more  than  three  inches  long 
and  sharp  at  the  comers.  The  only 
sounds  about  the  misty  ship  were  the 
73 


East  and  West. 

slow  shoving  of  the  engines  below,  and 
Still  at  the  wheel  whistling. 

I  wondered  at  Calhoun,  that  singular 
man,  and  wondered  at  this  business  alto- 
gether which  I  was  in.  For  Cavarly  and 
Morgan  had  played  their  great  trick,  and 
here  was  Calhoun  tricking  them,  and  how 
should  I  know  what  he  might  be  doing 
with  me,  he  a  man  so  full  of  stratagem. 
I  thought  there  would  be  no  way  of  tell- 
ing that,  and  I  had  better  play  the  part 
that  seemed  to  be  laid  out  for  me ;  but  I 
felt  very  lonely  and  troubled,  and  not 
cheerful,  not  as  I  used  to  in  setting  off 
fire  crackers  behind  Mr.  Hooley,  though 
that  was  considered  perilous  enough. 

I  went  up  to  Still,  thinking  to  fall 
into  talk  with  him  indifferently,  but  my 
throat  was  gaspy  and  choked  in  an  odd 
way.  Still's  pipe  was  out,  and  he  wanted 
me  to  go  forward  and  fetch  him  his 
plug. 

"Oh!"  I  said,  with  my  knees  shaking 
73 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

disgracefully,  "you  go,  and  let  me  hold 
the  wheel." 

"Hardly,  Bennie,  hardly.  An'  you 
learnin'  seaman's  duty  o'  me  that  way ! " 

Some  footsteps  were  coming  along  the 
deck,  and  I  thought  the  chance  was  gone ; 
but  it  was  Calhoun. 

"I  can  steer  good.  Honest,  Still. 
You  see." 

"Don't  mind  that,"  said  Still  apologet- 
ically to  Calhoun,  "but  'twouldn't  be 
right  to  leave  him  alone,  sir." 

"I'll  stay  here,"  said  Calhoun. 

"Ve'y  good,  sir." 

He  hurried  away.  Calhoun  sat  down, 
with  his  back  to  me  and  his  feet  braced 
on  the  rail. 

After  all  there  was  nothing  difficult 
about  it.  I  slipped  the  little  black  iron 
to  its  place,  in  the  binnacle,  to  the  left 
of  the  compass.  It  went  in  too  far,  so 
that  the  needle  swung  to  east  by  south, 
and  I  had  to  pull  the  iron  back.  The 
74 


East  and  West. 

needle  lay  trembling  at  right  angles  with 
the  ship,  and  I  began  to  turn  the  wheel 
nervously. 

"The  fellow  I  was  telling  you  of,"  re- 
marked Calhoun  without  looking  around, 
"he  took  his  time,  so  as  not  to  disturb 
anyone.  He  didn't  fidget.  He  kept  his 
eye  on  the  compass,  counted  eight  points, 
and  turned  the  wheel  back." 

The  ship  swung  softly  and  steadily; 
the  needle  crept  from  point  to  point,  till 
the  quarter  was  covered.  Still  came 
along  the  deck,  looming  in  the  mist  and 
puffing  his  pipe. 

"Hold  her  steady,  Bennie,"  he  said. 
"Seaman's  duty." 

And  there  was  nothing  in  the  white 
sea-fog  to  betray;  Calhoun's  back  was  as 
ncn-committal  as  the  fog ;  the  little  black 
iron  with  its  ghost  inside  it  lay  on  the 
shelf  in  the  binnacle  silently  too. 

But  the  ship,  slipping  along  through 
the  fog  so  quietly,  with  so  much  misun- 
75 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

derstanding  aboard  her,  seemed  to  me 
something  uncanny.  I  felt  as  if  we  were 
under  a  spell,  and  afterwards  as  if  all  the 
seamen  looked  at  me  oddly,  wondering 
that  so  chubby- cheeked  a  boy  should 
dare  interfere  with  a  ship's  compass ;  and, 
when  Morgan  would  call  me  "a  sinful 
oyster  who  would  be  the  death  of  him,"  I 
longed  to  tell  him  what  a  mixed  man  he 
was,  witli  no  cause  to  joke  at  all.  Some- 
times Cavarly's  remorse  at  having  to  drop 
me  at  some  distant  port  would  give  me 
a  twist  of  conscience  in  return. 

On  the  third  day — that  would  be  the 
28th — the  fog  turned  to  a  soaking  rain, 
and  after  that  the  wind  rose  in  the  north- 
west, which  Cavarly  took  for  southwest. 
On  the  1st  of  March  we  crossed  a  steamer 
going  east — or  north,  as  Cavarly  thought. 
It  looked  like  a  passenger  steamer.  He 
thought  it  could  not  be  American  in  the 
waters  where  he  supposed  himself,  and 
going  in  that  direction,  and  so  let  it  pass. 
76 


East  and  West. 

The  morning  of  the  2d  broke  with  the 
gale  still  blowing  but  the  rain  had  ceased. 
A  large,  double-funnelled  something  was 
coming  down  our  wake,  a  dusky  spot  iu 
the  gray  half -day  light  far  away,  with  two 
towers  of  black  smoke  over  her. 

There  was  trouble  on  the  Nameless 
when  the  stranger  was  made  out  by  the 
growing  light  to  be  a  cruiser,  nearly  large 
enough  to  cany  the  Nameless  for  a  long 
boat,  and  with  the  starred  and  striped  flag 
floating  overhead. 

There  is  an  odd  thing  about  that  flag, 
when  you  meet  it  on  the  high  seas  and 
the  wind  is  blowing  hard — namely,  that 
of  all  flags  I  know  it  is  the  most  alive, 
when  the  wind  blows,  the  most  eager  and 
keen,  with  the  stripes  flowing  and  darting 
like  snakes,  and  the  stars  seeming  to 
dance  with  the  joy  of  excitement.  So 
that  there  is  none  better  to  go  into  battle, 
or  come  down  the  street  when  the  fifes 
are  piping  ahead ;  but  if  you  want  some- 
77 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

thing  to  signify  peace  and  quiet,  you 
would  be  as  well  off  with  not  such  bris- 
tling stars  and  fewer  stripes,  for  the  stars 
will  leap  and  the  stripes  show  their  energy 
wherever  the  wind  blows. 

The  Nameless  did  not  alter  her  course, 
but  got  up  steam  and  plunged  on  with 
great  thumping  and  thunder  of  engines. 
The  cruiser  seemed  hardly  to  be  gaining. 
I  noticed  Calhoun  on  the  roof  of  the  cabin 
looking  forward,  and  wondered  if  we  were 
near  land.  I  think  Calhoun  must  have 
somehow  kept  the  bearings  and  known 
where  we  were,  for  the  lookout  cried 
"  Land !  "  at  near  eleven  o'clock.  Cavarly 
took  it  for  the  Bermudas  at  first,  but  prob- 
ably knowing  the  Bermudas  to  have  a 
high,  rocky  coast,  he  came  forward  and 
scanned  the  shore  a  long  time  through 
his  glass  silently.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
low-lying,  sandy  shore,  with  little  growth, 
if  any.  Through  a  glass  you  could  make 
out  the  great  surf  piling  upon  it,  white 
78 


East  and  West. 

and  dangerous.  I  went  on  the  roof  of 
the  cabin,  and  Calhoun  told  me  softly 
those  were  the  banks  of  the  Carolinas, 
meaning  that  low  belt,  outlying  along  the 
coast,  a  breakwater  of  sand  pressed  up 
by  the  sea,  with  quiet  waters  commonly 
within. 

The  ship  turned  to  the  quarter  and 
headed  south. 

By  twelve  another  spot  of  black  smoke 
rose  on  the  edge  of  the  sea,  and  this  was 
from  the  south.  In  half  an  hour  it  was 
made  out  to  be  another  cruiser,  smaller, 
and  floating  the  striped  flag. 

Cavarly  walked  the  deck,  gripping  his 
hands,  and  his  face  seemed  to  grow  gray 
and  lined  with  the  pain  of  his  thoughts. 

He  ordered  the  men  to  be  called  aft, 
and  spoke,  standing  by  the  cabin  door. 

"  I'm  not  sayin'  what  that  shore  is.  I 
don'  know,  not  me.  We  lost  our  bear- 
ings. It  looks  to  me  mighty  cur'ous. 
But  I'm  sayin'  there's  no  Yankee's  goin' 
79 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

to  capture  my  ship.  Nameless  she  is,  an' 
Nameless  she  goes.  I'm  goin'  to  beach 
her." 

Someone  cried,  "  Beach  her,  cap'n. 
We're  in  it." 

After  that,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  there 
was  nothing  but  roar  and  tumult,  with 
moments  passing  like  seconds,  till  the 
cruise  of  the  Nameless  ended.  I  remem- 
ber a  shell  from  one  of  the  cruisers  that 
skipped  along  the  water  beside  us — like 
those  fiat  stones  we  used  to  throw  slant- 
ing into  the  East  Eiver — and  burst  with 
a  crack  and  spatter  of  spray  just  ahead. 
I  remember  how  the  surf  towered  and 
bubbled  and  roared  at  the  ship's  bows, 
and  how  I  was  cast  headlong  on  the  deck 
when  she  grounded. 

They  fired  her  too  near  the  powder,  and 
she  blew  up  before  the  last  had  left,  and 
one  of  the  boats  foundered  in  the  surf. 

I  remember  how  bitterly  the  men 
worked,  drawing  the  other  boats  over  the 
80 


East  and  West. 

sand  hills,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  it  might 
be,  to  the  water  within.  The  cruisers 
lay  off  shore,  not  daring  to  lower  boats 
for  the  high  seas  and  surf.  But  the 
strangest  sight  to  me  was  the  six  drowned 
men,  lying  in  the  wash,  and  among  them 
with  his  lips  pursed  out,  as  if  amused  and 
smiling  up  into  the  wild  sky,  that  singu- 
lar man,  Dan  Morgan.  For  he  looked  as 
if  he  liked  it  well  enough,  lying  dead  in 
the  wash  of  the  sea,  and  thought  it  odd 
at  any  rate  that  Bennie  Cree  should  have 
been  the  death  of  him. 


81 


CHAPTEK  V. 

TOMMY   TODD's. 

The  island  seemed  to  stretch  endlessly 
north  and  south,  and  to  average  half  a 
mile  in  width ;  but  there  was  a  long  slice 
of  bay  from  the  inner  sound,  nearly  op- 
posite to  where  the  ship  lay  rolling  in 
the  surf  and  burning  sullenly.  Cavarly 
went  over  the  sand  hills  and  saw  it,  and 
made  out  a  forested  shore  across  the 
water,  and  saw  the  sail  of  a  fishing  boat 
in  the  distance. 

They  left  Gerry  and  me  to  draw  the 
bodies  up  the  sand,  and  give  them  such 
poor  graves  as  we  could  scoop  with  our 
hands. 

It  was  dark  before  the  boats  were 
brought  to  the  inner  beach.  I  heard 
Calhoun  telling  Cavarly  there  would  be 
82 


Tommy  Todd's. 

no  landing  from  the  cruisers  till  daybreak, 
and  probably  none  at  all. 

"Wliat  would  they  do  it  for?  The 
ship's  burned." 

"  I  don'  calculate  till  I  know  where  we 
are." 

"Well — suppose  it's  the  Bahamas. 
They  wouldn't  then." 

"  Bahamas !  How  come  we  to  get  to 
the  Bahamas?     No,  they  wouldn't." 

I  think  he  knew  it  was  the  United 
States,  and  no  Bahamas. 

We  were  wet,  shivering,  and  exhausted. 
The  night  was  dark,  the  wind  cold  and 
full  of  spray.  Cavarly  ordered  us  to 
scatter,  and  each  find  dry  sand  among  the 
dunes,  if  he  could,  to  cover  himself  with. 
What  with  the  darkness  and  the  shrieking 
wind,  at  twenty  feet  from  your  next 
neighbour  you  were  quite  alone,  seeing  and 
hearing  nothing  of  him.  Presently  I  was 
stumbling  among  sliding  sand  heaps ;  and 
after  I  had  found  a  sheltered  spot,  I  did 
83 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

not  care  where  it  was,  but  scraped  off  the 
wet  top  sand  and,  burying  myself  in  the 
dry  beneath,  there  lay  shaking  and  gasp- 
ing with  the  chill  till  I  fell  asleep. 

The  morning  broke  with  the  grey,  driv- 
ing clouds  still  over  us.  We  got  away, 
without  looking  to  see  whether  the  cruis- 
ers on  the  other  side  were  waiting  or  not, 
every  man  with  sand  on  his  hair  and 
clothes,  a  silent  and  pale-faced  company. 
Few  had  slept  for  the  wet  and  cold. 

I  was  in  the  boat  with  Cavarly,  and 
saw  him  gazing  at  the  distant  shore  and 
wrinkling  his  brow  and  pulling  his  beard. 
A  thin,  sallow  man  it  was,  named  Henry, 
who  pulled  the  bow  oar  and  kept  his  head 
turned  over  his  shoulder.  Presently  he 
unshipped  his  oar,  got  up  and  looked 
ahead. 

"  Cap'n,"  he  said,  "  beggin'  your  pardon, 
that's  Eedwood,  North  Ca'lina." 

"I  reckon  like  enough,"  growled  Cav- 
arly. 

84 


Tommy   Todd's. 

"Happen  I  was  bo'n  over  there,"  said 
Henry.  "Drove  the  mules  to  a  mule 
windlass,  what  they  haul  seines  with,  on 
that  same  beach.  That's  Tommy  Todd's 
boathouse,  an'  he  lives  back  o'  them  pitch 
pines." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Cavarly,  "an'  pull  for 
Tommy  Todd's." 

The  men  gave  a  faint  cheer  and  shouted 
to  the  boat  behind.  But  Cavarly  looked 
no  more  cheerful  than  before. 

We  drew  to  the  shore,  where  an  old 
weather-beaten  boathouse  stood,  the  mule 
windlass  before  it,  two  uprights  with  a 
monstrous  spool  between;  and  we  strag- 
gled wearily  up  the  beach,  seeing  in  the 
distance  a  long,  shambling  house  among 
the  pitch  pines,  with  smoke  rising  from 
the  chimney.  There  Henry  beat  upon 
the  door,  opened  it  to  a  sound  within, 
and  we  streamed  into  a  low,  smoky  room 
where  a  man  and  a  woman  sat  at  break- 
fast. A  fat  negro  woman  was  frying 
85 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

bacon  on  a  stove,  and  an  old  negro  man 
sat  bent  over  in  a  chair. 

"  Hiop !  Jemima !  "  cried  the  man  at 
the  table,  "Four,  six,  eight!  Hoi'  on! 
Too  many." 

"Don'  you  know  me,  Tommy  Todd? 
I'm  Pete  Henry." 

"Maybe  you  be.  Jemima!  You're 
sociable,  Pete  Henry.  Ten,  twelve! 
Been  gettin'  acquainted,  ain't  you !  Four- 
teen, fifteen !     Jemima ! " 

Cavarly  introduced  himself  and  made 
Mr.  Todd  more  calm,  for  he  seemed  an 
excitable  man  and  sarcastic.  He  was 
square-set,  but  bony,  and  wore  a  thin, 
gray  chin  beard  and  a  faded  black  coat 
with  dangling  tails. 

Mrs.  Todd  screeched  when  we  first  be- 
gan to  pour  in,  the  fat  negro  woman  jab- 
bered wildly  and  crowded  herself  back 
of  the  stove,  and  the  old  negro  man  cried 
out  in  astonishment,  "An'  mah  name's 
Tuppentine ! "  But  presently  we  were 
86 


Tommy  Todd's. 

seated  about  everywhere,  and  mainly  on 
the  floor,  eating  corn  bread  and  bacon, 
which  the  fat  cook  fried  for  us,  rolling 
her  eyes  as  if  it  had  come  to  her  that  we 
would  ask  for  fried  cook,  when  there 
was  no  more  bacon. 

"  Druv  in  by  the  Yankees !  Jemima !  " 
said  Mr.  Todd. 

I  heard  him  telling  Cavarly,  if  he  went 
down  to  Eedwood  early  the  next  morn- 
ing, there  might  be  a  steamer  which  would 
take  him  round  through  the  Sound  and 
up  the  Chowan  Eiver  to  a  railroad  at 
some  place,  and  so  from  there  to  Eich- 
mond. 

After  that  the  men  lay  all  about  the 
house,  and  slept.  I  went  out  of  doors 
and  found  the  sun  shining.  Cavarly, 
Gerry,  and  Still  were  standing  near  the 
door.  They  all  turned  and  looked  at  me. 
Cavarly  frowned  suddenly,  as  if  with  a 
twinge  of  pain,  and  pulled  his  beard. 

I  went  down  on  the  sand  and  by  the 
87 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

boathouse  found  a  warm,  drowsy  place 
in  the  sun  and  out  of  the  breeze.  Far 
across  the  water  I  could  see  the  low  yel- 
low lines  of  the  Banks.  I  lay  there  an 
hour  or  more,  contented  as  an  ox,  or  any 
healthy  animal  that  has  been  through 
sore  labour  and  afterwards  been  given  a 
stomachful  and  bit  of  sun  to  lie  in.  Only 
I  was  stiff  and  sore.  And  it  was  sad, 
"  looking  across  the  water,  to  think  of  Dan 
Morgan  in  his  scooped  grave,  with  the 
sands  and  the  sea  about  him. 

Calhoun  came  round  the  boathouse, 
and  sat  down  near  me. 

"They're  on  to  us,"  he  said. 

I  started  and  felt  as  if  struck  with  a 
stone. 

"What!" 

"  Calmly,  Bennie  Ben.  Cavarly's  been 
talking  with  Still  and  keeping  the  corner 
of  his  eye  on  me  till  I'm  nervous.  It's 
pretty  straight  anyhow.  He  couldn't 
help  coming  to  it.  You  didn't  suppose 
88 


Tommy  Todd's. 

the  old  man  was  foolish?  Now,  if  he 
comes  to  you  about  it,  you'd  better  give 
in.  Lying  isn't  your  style.  You're  not 
gifted  that  way,  meaning  no  offense. 
You  couldn't  do  it  without  looking  as  if 
you'd  burgled  a  bank.  If  he  comes  to 
me,  I  don't  know.  It  looks  to  me  like  a 
circus  with  a  tight-rope  dancing  very 
neat.  I  don't  see  how  you  could  better 
it." 

Calhoun  smoothed  his  cheek  thought- 
fully, and  seemed  to  be  balancing  the  nice 
chances. 

"Somebody's  coming  down,  Beunie 
Ben.  Hear  'em?  Cavarly  saw  me. 
Thinks  he'll  take  us  together.  If  they 
don't  say  anything,  we  don't  say  anything. 
That's  our  point." 

He  slid  down  the  sand  about  thirty 
feet,  and  lay  in  the  sun,  with  his  hat  over 
his  face.  I  did  not  know  anything  better 
to  do  than  to  seem  asleep,  and  probably 
had  my  mouth  shut  tight  and  hands  stiff, 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

so  that  anyone  could  see  through  me  if 
he  chose  to  take  the  trouble. 

The  footsteps  came  round  the  corner 
and  stopped  beside  me,  then  moved  down 
the  sand.  In  a  moment  I  opened  my  eyes 
a  crack.  Cavarly  was  sitting  on  the  sand 
near  Calhoun,  Gerry  and  Still  standing 
behind  him.  Calhoun  had  just  pushed 
his  hat  from  his  face. 

"Warm  here,"  he  said. 

"I'm  thinkin',"  said  Cavarly,  "we'll 
take  that  boat  and  go  up  to  Eichmond. 
But  you  an'  Ben  Cree  there,  I  was  thinkin' 
you're  some  dif'ent." 

"Why,"  said  Calhoun,  looking  sur- 
prised, "don't  you  want  us  to  go  with 
you? " 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!  Not  that  at  all.  Glad 
to  have  you.  But  it  might  happen  you'd 
have  some  idea — Course  I  don'  know. 
But  you  ain't  really  bound " 

"Why,"  continued  Calhoun,  "if  you're 
thinking  of  sending  Ben  to  his  people, 
90 


Tommy   Todd's. 

you'd  better  take  him  with  you  as  far 
as  you  go.  Maybe  you  could  see  him 
through  to  Baltimore." 

"Hey!  that's  so,"  said  Cavarly  cheer- 
fully.    "An'  wha's  your  point?  " 

"  Mine !  Well,  you  see  my  position. 
What  would  you  advise,  as  a  friend  ? " 

Cavarly  hesitated  and  spoke  stiffly, 
with  embarrassment. 

"  I  don'  know  as  I'm  up  to  that.  Ap- 
pears most  natural  to  go  to  Richmond." 

"  Just  so.  And  what  point  would  there 
be  in  not  staying  by  you.  We  go  to — 
what  you  call  it — Redwood,  to-morrow? 
Early?" 

"Six  o'clock." 

"All  right." 

I  sat  up  as  the  three  men  passed,  but 
they  hardly  looked  at  me,  and  said  noth- 
ing. Calhoun  kept  his  hat  over  his  face 
till  their  footsteps  died  away,  then  turned 
around. 

"Captain  didn't  argue  that  well,"  he 
91 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

remarked.     "He  ought  to  be  dead  sure, 
and  he  isn't." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "he  might  feel  sure  of 
it  when  we  got  to  Eichmond,  and  then 
he'd  aiTest  us,  wouldn't  he?  " 

"  Eichmond !  We're  not  going  to  Eich- 
mond. We're  going  to  light  out  of  here 
to-night. " 

I  thought  Calhoun  was  difficult  to 
follow  in  his  plans,  and  waited  for 
more. 

"  Why,  see  here,  Bennie  Ben !  "  he  said 
indignantly.  "Here's  the  old  man  going 
round  looking  like  a  suppressed  wildcat 
and  thinking  I'm  not  on  to  him !  That's 
absurd.  It  don't  give  me  any  credit. 
He  ought  to  be  sure  we  fiddled  with  his 
compass,  and  he  ought  to  know  I'm  on  to 
him.  Must  be  he's  busted  with  his  ship. 
Why,  he's  a  clever  man,  Bennie,  but  look 
how  he's  doing!  Course,  if  a  fellow  is 
going  to  do  another  fellow,  he  has  to 
make  up  his  mind." 
92 


Tommy  Todd's. 

"  But  where  are  we  going  ?  " 

"North.  Follow  the  pole  star.  You 
lie  by  that  .pantry  door  to-night,  Bennie 
Ben.     I  figure  it  out  like  x  plus  i/." 

Calhoun  settled  his  hat  over  his  face 
and  seemed  to  give  himself  genuinely  to 
sleep.  He  said  nothing  more  till  we 
heard  Mr.  Todd  shouting,  "Hiop!  Din- 
ner ! " 

And  in  the  afternoon  he  fell  to  wan- 
dering about  aimlessly.  I  did  not  dare 
follow  him,  so  that  I  was  more  than  half 
unhappy  with  tickling  curiosity,  and  glad 
when  night  came,  and  I  had  no  longer 
to  caiTy  about  in  daylight  a  secret  that 
made  me  nervous.  If  Calhoun  had  heard 
me  on  the  point  of  telling  Cavarly  that  I 
hoped  to  see  him  again  another  time,  he 
would  not  have  thought  himself  so  infal- 
lible a  plotter. 

Mrs.  Todd  had  learned  from  the  men 
how  I  first  fell  among  them — a  thin 
woman  and  not  very  talkative.  She 
93 


Bennie  Ben   Cree 

brought  me  another  blanket,  where  I  lay 
by  the  pantry  door,  and  said: 

"Now,  don't  ye  mind,  don't  ye  mind;  " 
which  set  me  to  swallowing  lumps  in  my 
throat  suddenly.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
me  those  many  days  to  be  homesick,  and 
it  was  a  poor  time  to  begin.  She  touched 
my  hair  with  dry,  bony  fingers,  and  I 
remembered  having  seen  a  queer  black 
and  white  drawing  over  the  mantelpiece 
in  the  next  room,  of  a  medium-sized  boy 
in  a  short  jacket.  It  could  not  have  been 
a  good  drawing,  for  he  looked  very  flat- 
tened out.  I  sat  up  quickly  to  stop  the 
homesickness,  and  asked : 

"  Is  he  your  son,  in  the  drawing  ?  " 
"He's  dead,"  she  answered  gruffly,  and 
then  in  a  moment  repeated  quite  softly : 
"Don't  ye  mind,  don't  ye  mind." 
By  and  by  the  great  kitchen,  or  living 
room,  was  full  of  men.snoring  and  wheez- 
ing in  the  dark.     Before  the  lamp  was 
put  out  I  saw  Calhoun  in  a  rocking-chair, 
94 


Tommy  Todd's. 

with  his  feet  under  the  stove.  I  lay 
still,  and  looked  at  the  two  windows 
which  glimmered  with  the  dim  moonlight 
outdoors,  and  that  waiting  seemed  to  be 
something  endless  and  ghostly. 

I  did  not  hear  Calhoun  till  he  lay  beside 
me,  nor  did  I  hear  him  open  the  pantry 
door,  so  softly  and  slowly  he  moved.  But 
we  went  through  the  door,  and  closed  it. 

The  moonlight  shone  in  the  pantry 
window.  I  remember  taking  things  from 
a  tin  pan  and  putting  them  in  my  pock- 
ets. They  were  a  sort  of  sweet,  crusty 
biscuit.  Calhoun  put  a  piece  of  silver 
where  were  no  more  biscuits,  and  w^e  slid 
through  the  window,  and  crept  along  in 
the  shadow  of  the  house. 

"  Hiop !  "  said  someone  close  by  and 
softly,  through  the  crack  of  a  window 
next  the  pantry.     "Hoi'  on." 

We  stopped  short.  The  window  went 
up  slowly,  and  Mr.  Todd  leaned  out  in 
his  shirt. 

93 


Bennie   Ben   Cree, 

"  Where  you  goin'  th'ough  my  window  ?" 

"Going  to  cut  and  run,"  said  Calhoun 
despondently,  "if  you  don't  object.  If 
you  do,  we  yield  the  point.  You  needn't 
make  a  row." 

"  Wha'  for  you  goin'  ?  " 

"Captain's  down  on  us." 

"Jemima!  Bvit  I  bet  you  chaps  is 
Yanks,  both  of  ye.  Tell  ye  how  I  guess 
it " 

Mrs,  Todd  appeared  as  a  white  outline 
further  back  in  the  room,  and  said  some- 
thing. 

"Hey?"  said  Mr.  Todd. 

"  Let  'em  alone,"  she  whispered  angrily. 

"Hey?     Wha' for?" 

"You  let  'em  alone." 

"  Well,"  said  he,  grumbling  and  hesitat- 
ing, "  I  don'  know  as  there's  anythin'  in 
it  for  me.     Hoi'  on  now " 

She  pulled  him  back  and  closed  the 
window  softly,  and  so  we  came  away  from 
the  house  of  Tommy  Todd. 
96 


Tommy   Todd's. 

It  was  cold,  with  a  thin  slip  of  moon 
shivering  over  the  sea.  We  struck  to  the 
rear  of  the  house,  through  a  great  pine 
wood,  where  the  trunks  had  been  scraped 
for  turpentine,  and  looked  like  rows  of 
tombstones  filing  to  right  and  left;  and 
at  the  end  of  a  mile  we  fell  upon  a  fair 
travelled  highway,  leading  a  little  west- 
ward of  the  pole  star. 

For  that  night  it  was  nothing  but  put- 
ting one  foot  before  another,  hour  after 
hour,  at  first  eagerly,  and  at  the  end  only 
with  the  dull  intent  to  keep  it  up  till 
sunrise.  At  sunrise  we  passed  over  a 
black  creek,  through  a  bit  of  cypress 
swamp,  and  into  a  great  pine  wood  on 
either  side  of  the  road.  And  here  we 
left  the  road  for  a  secret,  sunny  spot  to 
sleep  in,  finding  it  well  enough,  for  the 
wood  was  full  of  open  spaces,  and  bot- 
tomed over  with  ridges  and  hollows  of 
sand. 

We  were  too  leg-weary  to  talk,  and 
97 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

only  munched  biscuits,  blinking  and 
drowsing.  And,  when  I  woke  again,  the 
sun  was  far  around  and  one  of  my  ears 
full  of  sand. 

Now  Calhoun  and  I  fell  to  talking — or 
he  talked  and  I  grunted  mostly,  with  the 
pains  in  me;  and  it  came  upon  me  that 
we  were  in  no  small  boy's  trouble,  and 
that,  if  we  ever  got  out,  I  might  ask  peo- 
ple to  call  me  a  man  and  very  likely  they 
would. 

"  Somebody's  after  us  hard  just  now,  I 
take  it,"  said  Calhoun,  "unless  they're  all 
gone  steamboating.  It  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  get  north  of  the  Potomac,  Ben- 
nie Ben,  and  the  longer  we're  in  Virginia 
the  hotter  it  will  be.  For  see  here,  now ! 
Suppose  the  whole  Confederacy  gets  to 
frothing  at  the  mouth,  and  cavorting 
round  like  a  crazy  elephant,  and  shouting, 
*  Who  did  up  Cavarly  ?  Ben  Cree.  Who 
messed  his  compass  ?  Ben  Cree.  Where's 
Ben  Cree?  In  Virginia.'  And  suppose 
98 


Tommy  Todd's. 

the  Confederacy  comes  stamping  all  over 
Virginia  after  you,  neglecting  the  war 
shameful.  What!  Maybe  they'd  ask 
for  me,  too?  Why,  then  we  get  out  of 
this.     That's  our  point." 

I  was  so  stiff  with  the  night's  tramp, 
and  lame,  so  tied  about  and  shot  through 
with  queer  pains,  coming  from  exposure, 
that  I  walked  but  a  few  steps,  and  fell 
down,  and  could  not  rise  for  the  knots  in 
my  leg-muscles. 

"I'm  dead  lame,  Calhoun,"  I  said  with 
a  sob.  "There's  an  awful  pain  going 
through  me.     I  can't  tramp  again." 

He  came  back  and  lifted  me,  putting 
his  arm  imder  my  shoulder  and  saying, 
"  Why,  you're  a  good  man,  Bennie,  but 
we  pushed  hard  last  night, "  and  so  helped 
me  slowly  through  the  wood. 

It  is  oftentimes,  in  cities  and  among 

comfortable  folk,  that  one  hears  talk  of 

friendship;    but    I   notice    that,    in    the 

famous  examples    of    this  thing    iu    old 

99 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

times,  it  always  lay  between  men  who 
saw  trouble  together,  and  maybe  the  open 
sky  at  night,  and  knew  what  it  was  to  be 
two  alone  among  enemies.  For  the  man 
that  you  have  been  hungry  with,  and 
weary,  and  frightened,  and  comforted  is 
never  like  other  men  to  you  again.  And, 
though  I  suppose  men  may  have  friend- 
ship for  each  other  for  pleasant  compan- 
ionship, and  that  may  be  one  kind;  still, 
when  they  have  walked  together  in  nar- 
row ways  of  fortune  there  comes  to  be 
another  bond  which  is  quite  different. 

So  much  we  were  thinking  of  this  new 
trouble  and  what  would  come  of  it,  that 
we  hardly  looked  before  us  on  coming  to 
the  road  till  someone  shouted  quite  near; 
and  there  were  a  mule  team,  resting  in  the 
shadow,  a  loaded  waggon,  and  at  either  end 
Tommy  Todd  and  the  old,  bent  negro. 
Turpentine. 


100 


CHAPTEK   VI. 

THE    DISMAL    CANAL. 

The  waggon  was  loaded  with  barrels 
and  bags,  and  plainly  Mr.  Todd  was  tak- 
ing produce  to  some  market.  The  great 
lean  mules  himg  their  heads  and  flopping 
ears  near  the  ground. 

"Hiop!"  said  Mr.  Todd.  "Here  you 
be!  An'  the  cap'n  pine  blank  mad  like 
a  teeter  end  hornet!  Well,  sirs,  I'm 
s'prised ! " 

Calhoun  went  up  calmly,  as  if  he  had 
naturally  supposed  ]\lr.  Todd  would  be 
resting  his  mules  about  there.  I  remem- 
ber that  Calhoun  once  said  to  me :  "  If  a 
man  expects  com  for  dinner,  and  finds 
it's  turnips,  what  will  he  do?  It  de- 
pends on  the  man,  Bennie.  I  generally 
eat  turnips. "  And  in  the  way  of  a  figure 
101 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

of  speech,  he  did,  taking  events  easily,  as 
they  came  to  him. 

"  Going  my  way !  "  said  Calhoun,  "  I 
declare!  And  here's  Bennie  Cree  with 
cramps  in  his  legs  and  crimps  in  his 
chest,  just  waiting  for  you." 

"Why,  get  aboard,"  cried  Mr.  Todd. 
"Get  aboard." 

And  presently  we  were  riding  comfort- 
ably, Calhoun  beside  Mr.  Todd,  and  I  on 
a  bag  behind  that  had  something  lumpy 
inside  it. 

"Mad,  was  he?"  said  Calhoun.  "So 
as  to  miss  his  boat  ?  " 

"Not  he.  No,  sir.  But  he  went  off 
r'arin'  an'  tearin'  like  he'd  caught  the  Old 
Boy.  He  cer'nly  did.  He  ac'  rippanacious. 
He  say  you  two  Yanks  fool  him  both 
ends,  an'  he'd  plough  up  Vaginia  an'  sow 
grass  seed  but  he'd  get  you.     He  did  so." 

"  Offered  a  reward,  did  he?     Say,  about 
a  hundred  apiece.     Course,  he  isn't  fool- 
ish.    More,  was  it?  " 
102 


The   Dismal   Canal. 


"Jemima!  How- 


Mr.  Todd  looked  startled  and  suspi- 
cious. 

"Left  some  of  his  men,  too?  Course  he 
did.  And  if  they  catch  us  you  don't  get 
the  reward.    That's  what's  in  it  for  you." 

"Hiop!     No,  that's  so." 

"And  where  are  you  bound  for  now, 
Mr.  Todd?" 

"  Canal,"  said  Mr.  Todd,  seeming  a  little 
subdued. 

"Going  to  ship  market  stuff  to  Nor- 
folk?" 

"You're  a  clean  guesser,"  grumbled 
Mr.  Todd.  "  Cleanest  I  ever  see.  I  was 
goin'  to  take  it  there  myself." 

"I  see.  Norfolk's  blockaded.  You're 
going  to  take  a  boat  load  by  the  Swamp 
Canal.  Use  your  own  mides,  maybe. 
Good  idea." 

"Jemima!"  said  Mr.  Todd,  "you're  a 
clean  guesser." 

The  old  negro  sat  on  a  barrel,  looking 
103 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

down  at  me,  so  bent  over  that  his  solemn, 
wrinkled  face,  with  its  fringe  of  dusty 
grey  beard,  was  near  his  knees.  He  gave 
a  soft  chuckle  and  motioned  to  the  two 
men  in  front. 

"Marse  Tommy,  he  gettin'  he  min' 
wukkin'.  Oomm!  He  studyin'!  Don' 
git  no  fish  'way  f'om  him.     Nc-o-o !  " 

He  began  to  hug  his  knees  with  pleas- 
ure at  thinking  how  clever  Mr.  Todd  was 
about  to  be;  and  so  we  were  believing 
very  earnestly,  both  of  us,  each  in  the 
greater  brilliancy  of  his  own  hero. 

"Dey's  oodles  an'  oodles  o'  folks  meek 
out  dey  play  kiyi  wi'  Marse  Tommy, 
an'  hit  tu'n  out  quar.  I  don'  know,  but 
hit  peahs  to  me  dey's  pow'ful  misfo'tu- 
nate. " 

Turpentine  shook  his  head  and  chuckled 
again. 

"Well,"  said  Calhoun,  "you're  after 
that  reward  naturally. " 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Todd,  "  'tain't  likely 
104 


The  Dismal   Canal. 

I'd  get  it,  no,  other  folks  bein'  smarte'n 
me." 

"  But  suppose,  being  in  trouble  and  see- 
ing no  other  way  out,  we  thought  we 
might  as  well  go  to  Norfolk  with  you  and 
take  our  chances.  Course,  we'd  try  to 
slip  you  there.  That  would  be  our  point. 
And  your  point  would  be  to  see  we 
didn't." 

"  Jemima !  "  said  Mr.  Todd  sarcasti- 
cally. "Ain't  you  fixin'  things  pretty 
nice?" 

"Well,  course,  I  don't  know  that  we 
could  get  clear  of  you  any  better  than  we 
could  Cavarly's  men.  Likely  we'd  slip 
up  either  way.  We  take  our  chances. 
But  how's  your  point  ?  Why,  if  Cavarly's 
men  catch  sight  of  us,  they  grab  us. 
Course,  they  want  the  reward.  Give  and 
take's  the  rule.  We  give  you  a  chance 
at  the  reward,  and  take  a  chance  to  cut 
loose,  sort  of  exchanging  commodities. 
Now,  that's  square." 
105 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

"My,  my !  "  said  Mr.  Todd  with  bland 
admiration,  "  ain't  it  the  beatenest  thing, 
the  way  you  go  on  makin'  plans !  Saves 
me  a  heap  o'  trouble.  Ain't  got  a  jack- 
knife  to  trade  for  a  mule,  have  ye? 
Jemima ! " 

"Well,  what  do  you  say?  " 

"Me!     I  don'  say  nothin'." 

"Tha's  it!"  said  Turpentine  softly. 
"He  don' say  nothin'.  Oomm!  Hemin' 
wukkin'." 

We  went  on  now  jogging  steadily, 
rather  to  the  west  than  north,  and  the 
sand  ridges,  that  had  lain  along  between 
creek  and  creek,  disappeared  from  the 
landscape.  It  was  a  continuous  swampy 
country,  a  wall  of  reeds  and  matted  briars 
on  either  side  of  the  road,  and  great, 
gloomy  trees  standing  apart,  with  mosses 
hanging.  In  breaks  of  the  reeds  there 
would  be  black  pools,  and  creeks  like 
ditches  for  the  stillness  of  the  water,  se- 
cret, furtive,  with  twisted  knees  of  cy- 
106 


The   Dismal   Canal. 

press  root  sticking  out  of  the  banks,  and 
half-sunken  logs,  from  which  the  turtles 
plumped  off  solidly.  The  moss  dripped, 
the  very  air  was  wet.  The  wind  made 
always  a  hissing  in  the  reeds. 

The  road  was  bad,  full  of  deep  holes, 
and  sometimes  made  of  uncertain  logs, 
which  the  mules  tiptoed  over  in  an  expe- 
rienced manner.  I  learned  to  roll  about 
with  the  waggon.  Turpentine  swung  on 
his  barrel  like  a  weathervane,  and  seemed 
often  to  be  going  off  into  the  reeds. 

It  grew  dark,  and  the  stars  came  out. 
The  frogs  were  gulping  about  us.  Tur- 
pentine crawled  down  from  his  barrel 
grumbling,  and  pulled  out  a  blanket  from 
below  the  seat;  and  I  was  glad  to  take 
a  corner  of  it  and  be  friendly,  though 
neither  of  us  made  conversation,  being 
fretful  with  the  cold  and  damp. 

So  we  went  on  many  hours,  all  for  the 
most  part  silently,  and  at  last — but  how 
late  I  do  not  know — drew  up  beside  a 
107 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

house.  Two  or  three  other  buildings 
were  near,  standing  blackly  in  the  night. 
There  was  a  huge  negro  with  a  lantern, 
and  a  white  man,  lean  and  tall,  who  said, 
"Howdy,  Tommy."  And  after  that  I 
lay  down  somewhere  on  a  corn-husk 
mattress,  fever  and  aches  for  company, 
not  thinking  where  we  might  be,  or  know- 
ing till  morning  that  we  were  come  to 
the  great  canal. 

I  sat  up  in  the  dim  morning,  and  looked 
about.  It  was  a  small,  low  room.  Cal- 
houn lay  on  a  mattress  agamst  the  door. 
It  struck  me  wdth  wonder  and  some 
shame,  how  careful  he  was,  how  watchful 
of  little  things.  Yet  for  this  matter,  it 
seemed  to  me,  if  Mr.  Todd  had  wished  to 
make  us  prisoners  there,  he  would  have 
had  no  need  to  surprise  us  in  the  night. 

Presently  there  were  noises  outside, 
and,  when  Calhoun  woke,  we  rose  and 
opened  the  door,  which  led  into  a  kind  of 
108 


The  Dismal  Canal. 

kitchen  where  a  young  woman  in  a  neat 
apron  was  cooking.  Outdoors  we  found 
Turpentine  and  the  black  giant  I  had 
seen  the  night  before  unloading  the  wag- 
gon into  a  canal  boat,  somewhat  small, 
perhaps  forty  feet  long.  For  the  broad 
canal  ran  close  to  the  house,  with  a  wet, 
slippery  tow  path  beside  it.  Mr.  Todd 
was  down  in  the  hold  of  the  boat,  which 
seemed  well  laden,  and,  as  I  judged,  for 
the  most  part,  with  garden  stuff,  fish  in 
barrels,  and  vegetables  in  bags.  But  the 
middle  of  it  was  free  for  living  in.  I 
made  out,  by  peering  in,  a  pile  of  corn 
husks  and  straw  for  sleeping,  and  a  stove 
with  the  pipe  wired  along,  to  take  the 
smoke  to  where  it  could  float  up  freely 
through  the  scuttle.  The  scuttle  door 
was  lifted  back  on  hinges,  and  a  padlock 
hung  from  it.  A  ladder  ran  down  inside. 
After  breakfast,  where  the  woman  with 
the  apron  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  Calhoun  talked  with  the  lean  man 
109 


Bcnnie  Ben   Cree. 

and  Mr.  Todd,  we  went  back  to  the  boat, 
and  found  one  of  the  mules  at  the  tow 
rope,  and  the  other  aboard,  tied  forward. 
Mr.  Todd  took  the  helm.  Turpentine 
started  the  tow  mule,  shouting  at  him, 
"G'long  now!  You  hyah  me!  I  skin 
you  toof . "  The  young  woman  waved  her 
apron  from  the  door.  But  this  seemed 
surprising,  that  the  big  negro.  Gamp, 
did  not  go  ashore  but  sat  with  his  feet 
hanging  down  the  scuttle,  and  his  bulk  of 
shoulders  slouched  forward.  He  seemed 
ready  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  sun. 

Calhoun  looked  at  him  a  moment,  then 
at  Mr.  Todd,  and  afterwards  went  fore, 
where  he  leaned  against  the  rail  whistling 
to  himself. 

Big  Gamp  showed  that  Mr.  Todd  had 
surely  been  working  his  mind.  Calhoun 
and  I  had  no  purpose  to  escape  while  in 
the  Swamp,  where  we  would  be  lost  for- 
ever likely  in  its  jungles  and  black  gulfs. 
But  Mr.  Todd  might  think  us  desperate 
110 


The   Dismal   Canal. 

to  that  extent,  and  cause  us  to  be  tied  up 
below  by  the  monstrous  black  man,  big 
enough  to  throttle  an  ox,  and  silent,  and 
savage-eyed.  For  though  I  was  stout  for 
my  age,  and  Calhoun  a  sinewy,  enduring 
man,  and  both  of  us  ready  to  fight,  yet 
we  could  clearly  do  nothing  with  Gamp. 
Old  Turpentine  might  count  for  little, 
but  Mr.  Todd  seemed  stronger,  heavier 
than  either  of  us. 

I  went  forward  to  Calhoun,  and  he  was 
not  cheerful,  though  it  seemed  to  be  not 
the  prospect  which  troubled  him  so  much, 
but  that  he  suspected  himself  of  a  mis- 
take. 

"That  man,  Todd,  Bennie,"  he  said,  "I 
figured  him  wrong.  I  didn't  put  him 
high  enough.     He's  cornered  me." 

"  Why  doesn't  he  make  sure  of  us  now  ?  " 

"Maybe  he'd  rather  keep  things  agree- 
able while  he  can.  That's  good  sense. 
Why,  he's  figuring  right.  He's  a  better 
man  than  Cavarly.  Why,  look  here! 
Ill 


Bennie   Ben    Cree. 

We  can't  light  out  into  this  swamp.  The 
nigger'd  corral  us  in  ten  minutes." 

Calhoun  fell  again  into  gloomy  silence, 
staring  at  the  wild,  tangled,  and  hopeless 
jungle  that  slipped  slowly  past  us.  Old 
Turpentine  was  plodding  ahead  behind 
his  mule,  and  even  the  hump  of  his 
stolid  shoulders  was  discouraging. 
"Folks  meek  out  dey  play  kiyi  wi' 
Marse  Tommy.  Peahs  to  me  dey  pow'- 
ful  misfo'tunate." 

I  had  grown  almost  to  think  Calhoun 
infallible  with  his  courage  and  wits.  It 
went  hard  with  us  both  to  have  him 
beaten  by  that  farmer  and  seine-fisher, 
with  two  negroes.  It  was  Calhoun's 
pride — a  weakness,  if  one  chooses,  at 
least  what  gave  him  most  delight — to 
look  at  life  and  every  experience  as  a 
kind  of  game,  which  he  played  to  win, 
measuring  himself  with  other  men. 

"I've  pulled  you  into  it,  Bennie,"  he 
said  slowly.  "  I  shouldn't  have  done  it. 
113 


The  Dismal   Canal. 

Cavarly'd  have  seen  you  out,  if  I'd  let 
you  alone  to  begin  with." 

"That's  not  square,"  I  said  half  angrily. 

"Why?" 

"Don't  we  go  together?  Anyhow  I 
want  my  share.  Why,  Calhoun,  I  say — 
I  don't  like  that  talk.  I  say,  you're  all 
right  with  me,  and  I  won't  have  it." 

Calhoun  looked  at  me  curiously  and 
said: 

"Shake,  Bennie." 

We  shook  hands  secretly  below  the  rail. 

But  nothing  of  importance  came  that 
day.  We  crawled  through  the  same 
black  water,  past  the  same  wet,  tangled 
growth  and  towering  dark  trees,  with 
sometimes  a  shift  of  mules,  and  some- 
times Turpentine  at  the  helm  and  big 
Gamp  on  the  tow  path. 

Calhoun  and  I  went  below  before  dark, 

with   the  hope  of  quieting  Mr.   Todd's 

mind,  supposing  him  to  be  uneasy;  and 

later,  when  the  boat  was  fastened  and  the 

113 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

mule  brought  aboard,  we  all  ate  together, 
though  saying  little.  Big  Gamp  took 
down  the  ladder  and  slept  with  his  head 
on  it.  More  threatening  still  it  was  that 
Mr.  Todd  lay  with  a  shot  gun  across  his 
knees,  an  odd-looking  weapon,  with  a 
great  lump  of  a  hammer.  So  that  I  lay 
long  awake,  watching  the  dim  red  glim- 
mer of  the  lantern,  and  listening  to  the 
hoarse  breathing  of  the  great  negro.  But 
my  "  crimps  and  cramps  "  were  mainly 
gone. 

The  night  passed  quietly,  and  so  too 
the  following  morning.  Mr.  Todd  car- 
ried his  shot  gun  about,  and  said  nothing. 
By  afternoon  we  were  out  of  the  wilder- 
ness of  swamp,  for  there  were  open  fields 
in  sight,  and  we  passed  under  a  bridge, 
and  saw  small  shanties,  and  little  picka- 
ninnies fishing  and  playing  about  the  tow 
path.  And  though  the  mouths  of  cannon 
were  hot  that  day  a  few  miles  to  the 
north,  it  was  peaceful  on  the  old  canal 
114 


The   Dismal   Canal. 

boat,  or  appeared  so.  The  water  rippled, 
the  tow  rope  sagged,  and  we  lay  about  in 
the  sun  and  were  silent. 

In  this  way  the  time  of  action  came 
jump  upon  us,  out  of  the  quiet  and  the 
waiting. 

The  sun  was  just  set;  the  canal  boat 
had  stopped ;  the  tow  mule  was  nibbling 
grass  by  the  path.  Mr.  Todd  stepped 
forward,  gun  in  hand,  and  Gamp  behind 
him: 

"I  reckon  we'll  go  below." 

And  Calhoun  said,  referring  to  Gamp 
and  the  gun : 

"It  appears  to  be  about  as  you  say." 

Below  Turpentine  had  taken  the  top 
off  the  little  stove  and  was  frying  some- 
thing on  the  coals.  Gamp  shuffled  into 
a  comer,  and  came  out  with  his  fists  full 
of  rope,  of  the  size  of  lanyards  or  clothes- 
line, and  his  fists  looked  like  quarters  of 
beef  or  the  ends  of  battering  rams. 

"Now,  I'm  puttin'  it  to  ye,"  said  Mr- 
115 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

Todd,  "ain't  I  treated  ye  reasonable? 
But  a  man's  got  to  be  precautious,  ain't 
he?  Jemima!  Such  slippery  chaps  as 
you's  not  goin'  to  follow  me  into  Norfolk 
same  as  trained  pups." 

"Your  argument,"  said  Calhoun,  stand- 
ing up  straight  and  slim,  "is  fine,  sir, 
fine." 

"  My,  my !  "  said  Mr.  Todd  soothingly. 
"An'  I  see  you  an'  me's  goin'  to  agree. 
Business,  jus'  business.     Gamp !  " 

Gamp  shufiled  up  to  Calhoim,  and  Mr. 
Todd  turned  to  me.  But  now,  so  swift 
an  impulse  came  over  me  to  fight,  to  run, 
to  leap  into  the  midst  of  things,  that  it 
seemed  like  a  flash  and  burst,  an  explo- 
sion within  me;  and  I  crouched,  dodged 
Mr.  Todd,  and  ran  blind-headlong  into 
old  Turpentine.  We  fell  together  against 
the  stove,  sending  it  flying  along  the 
floor,  with  a  crash  of  pipe  and  scatter  of 
coals  and  burning  wood  all  over  the 
corn  husks  and  straw.  I  jumped  for  the 
116 


The  Dismal   Canal. 

ladder.  The  straw  and  husks  blazed  up 
behind  me.  Mr.  Todd  dropped  his  gun 
and  ran  into  the  midst  of  the  flame  and 
smoke,  stamping  and  shouting. 

From  the  top  of  the  ladder  I  saw  big 
Gamp  dragging  Calhoun  by  the  collar,  as 
if  he  weighed  no  more  than  an  old  coat, 
dragging  him  over  the  gun  on  the  floor. 
Calhoun's  hand  touched  the  gun,  and 
gripped  it.  How  he  twisted  his  feet 
under  him  I  could  not  guess.  It  was 
something  too  limber  and  swift  to  follow. 
It  seemed  one  movement  to  stand  up, 
to  swing  the  old  gun  two-handed  with  a 
crash  on  big  Gamp's  head,  who  dropped 
in  a  heap.  The  gun  snapped,  the  butt 
spun  across  the  floor,  and  Calhoun  came 
up  the  ladder  with  the  barrel. 

I  caught  but  a  glimpse  from  the  deck 
into  the  smoky  red  pit  below,  saw  Mr. 
Todd  stamping,  saw  big  Gamp  rising, 
with  horrible,  glarhig  eyes  and  dripping 
mouth,  heard  him  roar  like  a  bull  from 
117 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

the  bottom  of  his  throat.  Turpentine  sat 
up  on  the  floor,  rubbing  his  scalp :  "  An' 
mah  name's  Tuppentine."  Then  Calhoun 
slammed  down  the  scuttle  and  slipped 
the  padlock. 

We  jumped  for  the  shore  and  ran. 
There  were  woods  beyond  the  tow  path 
but  a  short  distance,  and  no  house  was 
in  sight. 

"  They'll  bum !  "  I  cried,  as  we  reached 
the  woods. 

"Burn!"  said  Calhoun.  "  The  nigger'll 
smash  the  scuttle  with  his  finger.     Eun ! " 

I  looked  over  my  shoulder,  and  half 
saw  the  great  black  head  and  shoulders 
heave  up  through  the  splintered  scuttle. 

We  ran  on  through  the  open  woods, 
circling  towards  the  north.  It  was  grow- 
ing dusky,  and,  when  we  came  to  the 
open  fields,  it  was  dark  enough  for  lights 
to  be  burning  in  a  distant  cluster  of 
cabins.  Then  we  found  a  railroad  track 
running  east  and  west. 
118 


The   Dismal   Canal. 

"  They'll  hunt  us  this  way !  "  I  said 
gasping,  and  Calhoun: 

"  The  other  side  the  canal !  " 

We  ran  westward  along  the  track  to  a 
trestle-bridge  over  the  canal,  on  which 
we  crawled  hands  and  knees,  seeing  stars 
reflected  in  the  dark  water,  and  beyond 
came  at  last  upon  a  road  that  seemed  to 
lead  as  we  wished,  under  the  pole  star, 
northward,  where  should  lie  the  blockad- 
ing ships. 


119 


CHAPTEE   VII. 

WE  COME    TO   A    RIVER  CALLED  ELIZABETH, 

AND     TO     ANOTHER     CALLED       JAMES 

CONCLUSION. 

We  left  the  railroad  behind  us  and 
took  that  northern  highway.  It  was 
still  early  in  the  night  when  we  passed  a 
big  plantation.  There  was  a  white  house 
back  from  the  road,  with  pillars  and 
lighted  windows.  We  had  slipped  aside, 
hearing  the  sound  of  a  galloping  horse. 
It  came  up  swiftly  from  the  south,  a 
white  horse  or  light  grey,  and  the  rider 
turned  him  in  at  the  wide  gate  into  the 
shadows  of  the  driveway.  Then  the  front 
door  went  open :  there  were  women's 
voices,  and  the  cries  of  laughter  of  chil- 
dren ;  the  man  ran  up  the  steps,  and  the 
light  from  the  hall  shone  on  his  grey 
120 


A   River   Called  James. 

UBiform  and  braided  hat;  the  door  closed, 
and  we  plodded  on  in  the  dark. 

Beyond  were  cabins  scattered  in  the 
fields,  and  presently  a  wood,  and  a  little 
peak-roofed  building  close  by  the  road, 
lighted  and  noisy  with  singing;  and  we 
slipped  aside  again,  avoiding  the  light. 
It  was  a  negro  service.  We  could  see 
the  crowded  black  heads  through  the 
windows,  and  even  hear  the  words  of  the 
hymn,  following  a  queer,  plaintive  tune. 
The  preacher  on  the  platform  shouted 
and  swung  his  arms : 

"Oh,  don'  you  heali  the  trumpet  blow? 
Lulah  !     Lulah  ! 
Don'  you  heah  the  trumpet  blow? 
All  the  mountains  fall." 

"  Notheh !  "  cried  the  preacher.  "  Thank 
God  foh'  notheh !     Don'  drap  'im !  " 

"Someone  meet  me  in  the  dark — 
Lulah  !     Lulah  ! 
Someone  meet  me  in  the  dark, 
Lif  me  when  I  fall." 
121 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

And  we  plodded  on  "in  the  dark." 
The  wood  gave  way  to  open  flat  fields, 
and  glimmering  sky,  where  the  Dipper 
hung,  with  its  pointers  signaling  the  pole 
star. 

"Looks  like  we're  most  out  of  it,  Ben- 
nie," said  Calhoun;  "but  you  can't  tell, 
I'm  not  figuring  so  much  as  I  was." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Well,  it's  this  way.  Why,  look  at  it ! 
I  figured  the  thing  out,  but  it  was  you 
that  flopped  the  ship  around,  and  nothing 
in  it  but  trouble  for  you.  You  had  no  use 
for  it.  And  what  made  the  old  lady  pull 
Tommy  Todd  off  us  ?  Not  me.  I  didn't 
count  on  her  at  all.  Then  I  figured  us 
into  the  hold  of  Tommy  Todd's  canal 
boat  in  a  bad  way,  and  it  was  you  bumped 
heads  with  Turpentine  and  fired  Tommy 
Todd's  bedding,  sort  of  off-hand-how-d'ye- 
do;  and  I'd  been  figuring  all  day,  like 
X  plus  y.  Shucks !  Flip  a  cent.  Hear 
those  niggers  singing  ? " 
122 


A  River  Called  James. 

"Wliat  did  it  mean,  'Meet  me  in  the 
dark,  Lift  me  when  I  fall,'  and  all  that?  " 

"  Don't  know.  Means  you  might  quit 
figuring.  It's  too  dark,  this  world,  too 
dark." 

I  said,  "  That  other  man  was  glad  to 
get  home,"  and  Calhoun  was  silent.  He 
seemed  to  be  low  in  his  mind. 

It  was  a  half-hour  later  that  we  heard 
again  the  galloping  of  a  horse  behind  us. 
It  came  up  and  passed  where  we  hid;  it 
was  the  white  horse  or  light  grey;  but  if 
the  rider  had  seen  us  and  wished  to  see 
more,  he  misjudged  his  distance  badly. 
He  stopped  far  beyond,  rode  through  the 
low  bushes  to  the  fence  and  looked  over; 
then  rode  to  and  fro,  peering  about  him, 
I  suppose,  for  the  light  was  not  enough 
to  be  sure.  But  we  heard  the  trampling 
of  his  horse  too  clearly,  and  he  came  as 
near  as  fifty  feet ;  finally  he  turned  into  the 
road  and  went  northward  at  a  gallop. 

We  saw  no  one  any  more,  and  all  along 
1^3 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

tlie  way  the  cabins  and  dwelling-houses 
were  dark.  It  might  have  been  three 
o'clock  when  we  came  upon  a  broad  river 
or  inlet,  which  the  road  followed  closely 
from  there  on,  circling  around  to  the  east 
along  a  bushy  and  swampy  shore.  Houses 
were  frequent,  piers  running  into  the 
river,  rowboats  drawn  among  the  reeds, 
sailboats  anchored,  piles  of  oyster  shells, 
and  the  smell  of  the  oyster  trade  every- 
where. Calhoun  thought  the  river  should 
be  the  west  branch  of  the  Elizabeth  Elv- 
er, and  that  Portsmouth  and  Norfolk 
should  lie  to  the  east  a  few  miles.  At 
last  the  opposite  shore  was  qiiite  lost, 
for  we  were  come  to  the  open  tideway 
of  the  Elizabeth  River,  and  there,  some- 
where across  the  water  and  through  the 
dimness,  lay  the  James  and  the  northern 
ships. 

The  morning  was  breaking  now,  with 
a  thick  mist  on  the  river.      Between  the 
road  and  shore  was  a  broad  space  of  reeds 
124 


A  River   Called  James. 

and  thick  tangled  undergrowth.  A  path 
led  through  it  from  the  pier  where  the 
boats  lay,  and  across  the  road  to  a  large 
house,  rather  new  and  flimsy-looking, 
with  long  piazzas,  and  a  sign,  which  I 
have  heard  read  at  that  time,  "Smith's 
Hotel,"  but  we  did  not  go  near  enough 
to  read  it. 

We  went  down  the  path  to  the  boats, 
and  thought  out  which  to  take  when  the 
time  came,  and  found  the  place  where  the 
oars  were  thrust  among  the  reeds,  for  a 
poor  attempt  to  hide  them,  if  that  were 
meant.  One  of  the  boats  was  covered  on 
the  bottom  with  oysters  in  their  knotted 
shells.  We  were  glad  enough  of  that, 
and  carried  maybe  half  a  bushel  into  the 
.thicket,  and  fell  to  breakfasting  on  them, 
feeling  more  cheerful,  though  raw  oysters 
in  a  damp  thicket  of  a  misty  morning 
are  no  luxury. 

I  woke  from  a  sleep,  that  I  thought 
had  been  short  and  surely  was  uncomfort- 
125 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

able,  to  hear  a  voice  shouting  from  the 
path  to  someone  down  by  the  pier. 

"  Hey,  landlo'd  1 "  it  said.  "  Can  I  put 
up  a  bill  on  your  post?  "  and  I  thought 
it  was  familiar,  but  could  not  place  it. 
Calhoun  was  motioning  me  to  lie  still. 
The  steps  of  several  men  crunched  the 
sand  on  the  beach,  and  the  speaker  went 
to  meet  them.  The  "landlo'd"  seemed 
to  be  deaf,  and  spoke  very  loudly  him- 
self. 

"  Wha'd  you  say  ?  What  you  got  there  ?" 
They  probably  stood  in  a  group  at  the 
end  of  the  path,  and  the  first  speaker  read 
his  "  bill "  aloud,  the  others  perhaps  read- 
ing too,  for  I  caught  only  certain  words : 
"  Reward — forty  years — slim,  lively — boy 
— well  grown — Eedwood,  South  Ca'lina"; 
and  then  it  came  upon  me  that  he  was 
reading  a  placard  and  description  of  Cal- 
houn and  me,  and  that  himself  was  no 
other  than  Gerry,  the  steersman.  That 
was  unpleasant,  but  I  wished  he  would 
126 


A  River  Called  James. 

read  the  description  more  clearly  and 
read  it  all. 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  landlord,  "tha's 
a  circumstance,  ain't  it?  " 

He  seemed  to  be  appealing  to  the  oth- 
ers about  him,  for  there  was  a  murmur 
which  amoimted  to  agreement  that  it  was 
a  circumstance.  "Why,  I'm  reckonin' 
you're  near  the  right  track.  Eh  ?  Why, 
Major  Sandfo'd — You  know  him?  " 

"No." 

"Eh?  Where'd  you  come  from? 
Major  Sandfo'd,  Sandfo'd  Plantation. 
He  rode  th'ough  here  las  'night;  said 
your  men  came  up  by  the  canal  an'  got 
loose  below  his  place  somewhere  an'  mos' 
bu'nt  up  the  canal  boat.  Eh?  He  said 
he  thought  he  saw  someone  on  the  road, 
but  mought  a'  been  wrong,  'cause  he  met 
his  niggers  comin'  f'om  their  meetin',  an' 
they  tol'  him  nobody  had  passed.  Nig- 
gers mought  lie.  Eh?  But  he  didn' 
find  'em,  if  he  saw  'em.  But  they  came 
127 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

by  the  canal.  Major  said  so.  Don'  you 
know  him  ? " 

They  all  went  up  the  path  together 
making  various  comments,  but  the  last 
I  heard  of  Gerry's  voice  was  when  he  said : 

"Fetches  us  inside  ten  miles,  don'  it? 
Might  a  took  the  fork  to  Po'tsmouth. 
But  you  better  watch  your  boats,  landlo'd. " 

Someone  else  said: 

"Hot  work  down  the  river,"  meaning 
the  cannonading. 

The  cannonading  kept  up  its  beat  and 
thrill  all  through  the  afternoon.  It  was 
the  8th  of  March.  We  did  not  know 
anything  peculiar  about  the  8th  of  March. 
There  was  an  iron-sided  thing  careering 
around  the  James  Eiver  the  while,  and 
eating  up  tall  ships,  and  feeling  much  too 
comfortable  over  it.  We  were  thinking 
about  Gerry,  and  the  landlord,  and  the 
boats. 

Towards  dusk  someone  came  stamping 
and  puffing  in  the  bushes,  and  we  made 
13b 


A   River   Called  James. 

out  that  he  was  come  to  hide  the  oars 
back  among  the  brakes  and  leaves.  We 
argued  it  must  be  the  landlord,  who 
seemed  to  be  fat  and  short  of  wind,  as 
well  as  deaf. 

We  waited  again  a  long  time.  Cal- 
houn rose  once  and  peered  about,  but  lay 
down  again  and  said  there  was  still  a 
light  at  the  hotel.  At  last  everything 
was  dark  and  silent,  so  far  as  we  could 
make  out. 

We  crept  along  till  we  found  the  oars, 
thrust  here  and  there  among  the  brakes, 
and  took  four  of  them,  and  so  out  into 
the  starlight  on  the  beach.  I  stepped 
into  a  boat,  and  Calhoun  shoved  the  prow. 
But  we  had  surely  made  a  noise — some 
unnoticed  clatter  of  oars — for  the  feet  of 
men  were  coming  now,  thumping  and 
stamping  down  the  path.  Calhoun 
shoved  and  leaped  in,  and  we  shot  out 
over  the  shallow.  But  one  of  the  men 
ran  across  the  strip  of  beach  into  the 
129 


Bennie   Ben  Cree. 

water  and  caught  the  prow;  and  Calhoun 
thrust  with  his  oar  handle,  so  that  he 
fell  over  and  made  a  splash;  and  we  got 
the  oars  in  and  rowed  away. 

They  were  the  landlord  and  two  other 
men.  The  two  others  fell  to  shouting  in 
the  landlord's  ear,  "  Oars !  oars !  "  and  all 
three  ran  into  the  bushes.  We  had  gotten 
away  so  far  that  the  shore  was  too  dim 
to  see,  but  I  thought  they  had  given  up. 
Calhoun  listened  and  heard  their  oar- 
locks. So  we  fell  to,  and  pulled  till  my 
ears  sang  and  my  arms  felt  wooden,  north 
by  west,  down  th'^.  river,  which  was  there 
broad  like  a  bay ;  and  we  kept  this  pace 
some  two  miles,  and  were  near  the  island 
they  call  Craney  Island,  where  were  Con- 
federate batteries. 

They  were  good  watermen.  They  out- 
rowed  us  fairly,  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
till  I  could  see  that  there  were  two  in  the 
stern  with  an  oar  apiece,  and  the  third 
man  pulling  two  oars. 
130 


A  River   Called  James. 

"They've  got  no  guns,"  said  Calhoun. 
"They  d  have  drawn  on  us." 

But  1  only  gasped  and  grunted  for  an- 
swer.    Calhoun  stopped  rowing. 

"Will  you  fight,  Bennie?" 

There  was  almost  a  laugh  in  his  voice, 
as  if  he  were  happy,  like  a  little  boy 
thinking  of  a  fine  new  game.  And 
somehow  I  was  glad  too,  and  cried, 
"  Yes !  "  feeluig  I  would  rather  fight  the 
Confederate  batteries  than  pull  through 
another  half -hour  so  desperately. 

"Turn  out  in  the  river  then.  Let's 
have  room." 

And  so,  when  they  caught  us,  we  were 
near  the  middle  of  the  river  and  far 
away  from  either  shore. 

"  Hoi ! "  said  the  one  in  the  prow. 
"  Ye  would,  would  ye !  " 

He  leaned  over  to  catch  the  stern  of 
our  boat.  I  stood  up  and  swung  my  oar 
behind. 

"Go  easy,  sonny,"  said  one  of  those  in 
131 


Bennie  Ben   Cree. 

the  stem.  "  You're  wo'th  money,  wo'th 
money.     Look  out  there !  " 

I  brought  the  oar  down  with  a  flat  slap 
on  the  first  man's  head,  who  pitched  into 
the  water,  hitting  our  boat  with  his 
shoulder.  And  Calhoun  palled  hard  and 
sudden,  so  that  I  fell  forward  across  my 
oar,  and  scrambled  up  very  bewildered. 

The  other  boat  had  swung  around  with 
the  shove  of  the  man  who  went  over,  for 
he  came  up  away  from  it.  Either  he 
could  not  swim  or  had  lost  his  head 
with  the  blow,  for  he  cried  out  and  sank 
again;  and  one  from  the  stern,  but  not 
the  landlord,  dove  in,  while  the  landlord 
howled  words  at  us  that  had  no  sense 
except  to  express  anger,  which  they  did 
very  well. 

We  pulled  away.  I  seemed  to  make 
out  from  the  sounds  that  they  were  lift- 
ing the  half-drowned  man  aboard,  but 
we  saw  no  more  of  them.  Someone  on 
Craney  Island  fired  his  gun  off.  It 
133 


A   River   Called  James. 

sounded  very  sharp  and  near.  There 
was  a  light-boat  ahead,  marking  the 
channel,  and  someone  there  who  shouted ; 
but  we  turned  aside,  and  went  far  over  to 
the  right  till  we  touched  the  reeds  along 
the  eastern  shore,  and  so  came  out  into 
the  James. 

There  followed  a  silent,  dogged,  weary 
space  of  time — of  rowing  and  resting,  and 
rowing  again — dark  water  slapping  the 
boat  sides,  and  the  same  thing  on  and  on. 

The  moon  rose  late,  and  when  there 
should  have  been  dawn,  came  a  mist  in- 
stead, which  was  worse  than  the  night, 
for  now  we  might  row  past  the  ships  and 
not  see  them,  whereas  in  the  dark  w^e 
should  have  seen  the  lights. 

We  came  suddenly  close  to  a  tall  ship: 
the  watch  heard  us  j5rst,  and  called 
"  Ahoy ! "  a  voice  dropping  down  from 
overhead  in  the  white  mist. 

"  Is  this  the  Saratoga  ?  " 
133 


Bennie   Ben   Cree. 

A  lantern  came  down  on  a  rope  and 
stopped  over  us,  and  heads  were  thrust 
out  over  the  rail.  They  seemed  to  be 
satisfied  we  were  not  dangerous ;  I  think 
we  did  not  look  so,  only  two  men  in  a 
small  rowboat,  with  faces  white  and 
weary,  who  spoke  in  thin  voices.  I 
thought  my  voice  sounded  queer  and 
dreary. 

"  Is  this  the  Saratoga  ?  " 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Escaped  from  the  south." 

"  You  don't  say !  "  The  heads  con- 
sulted. 

"  Is  this  the  Saratoga  ?  " 

"  What  ?  The  Saratoga  lies  two  hun- 
dred yards  astern  of  us." 

"  Captain  Benson  ? " 

"What?     Aye,  Cap'n  Benson." 

Lanterns  traveled  and  gathered  to  the 
stern  of  the  ship  to  watch  us  move  away. 
They  looked  like  a  cluster  of  dim  stars 
in  the  mist, 

184 


A   River   Called  James. 

"Ahoy!"  the  voice  cried  after  us,  and 
we  stopped  rowing.     "  Are  you  Ben  Cree  ?  " 
"Yes." 
"Well,  I'll  be  dished!" 

And  here  is  evidently  where  this  story 
ends,  since  it  is  not  a  biography;  for  a 
story  should  know  its  own  right  begin- 
ning and  end,  just  as  a  biography  should 
not  maunder  over  neighboring  generations. 
The  rest  is  only  coming  aboard  the  Sara- 
toga— where  I  had  a  dim,  weary  notion 
of  familiar  faces,  and  went  to  sleep  in  a 
bunk,  and  woke  to  see  Uncle  Benson 
standing  over  me,  very  prim  and  natty. 
"  Well,  Bennie ! "  he  said,  "  it  seems  to 
me  you've  been  out  pretty  late  nights." 
And  I  had  slept  near  a  dozen  hours, 
while  the  Monitor  and  the  Merrimac 
were  rubbing  the  muzzles  of  their  cannon 
together,  in  plain  sight  from  the  Sara- 
toga's deck,  making  a  mess  of  naval  war- 
fare. 

135 


Bennie   Ben    Cree. 

Calhoun  afterwards  went  off  and  en- 
listed, and  fell  in  some  Western  fighting. 
Cavarly  I  have  seen  since,  indeed  not  so 
long  ago,  and  shaken  hands  with  quite 
friendly,  and  Ben  Cree  has  worn  a  cap- 
tain's title  these  years  and  has  wondered 
whether  he  ever  deserved  it. 

For  while  a  man  is  in  the  thick  of  his 
life  he  speculates  little ;  he  fights,  he  stays 
quiet,  he  runs,  as  seems  best  to  his  sense 
and  suited  to  his  feelings  or  the  way  he 
has  been  trained;  he  has  few  opinions 
on  the  subject,  and  those  only  fitting  each 
event.  Everything  about  him  seems  at 
that  time  but  a  stage,  where  he  plays 
his  part  hastily  and  quite  absorbed. 

But  afterwards  he  would  like  to  think 
he  has  played  his  part  well,  and  he  hardly 
knows.  Sometimes  there  is  a  bit  of 
handclapping  here  and  there,  but  the 
Author  and  Master  of  the  play  says 
nothing  till  it  is  all  over  and  the  curtain 
has  fallen. 

136 


A   River  Called  James. 

"Some  folks,"  Calhoun  used  to  say, 
"want  to  know  everything  before  they've 
done  anything.  Why,  Bennie,  you  don't 
know  two  and  two  make  four  till  you've 
put  'em  together.  Why?  Because  they 
don't  make  four  till  you've  put  'em  to- 
gether. " 

"But  you  know  they  will  make  four," 
I  would  answer  for  the  argument. 

"Well,"  he  would  say,  "I've  known  a 
two  and  two  that  was  as  good  as  a  dozen. 
And  I've  known  another  two  and  two 
that  was  worse  than  nothing." 

That  was  an  odd  man  whom  I  never 
understood. 

But  I  think  if  I  were  to  choose  one 
man  to  go  with  into  the  wilderness,  it 
would  be  Calhoun  and  no  other;  and  I 
suppose  that  is  one  kind  of  friendship,  as 
the  old  poets  declare.  For  the  matter  of 
knowing  and  doing,  it  is  good  arithmetic 
for  a  man  to  know  how  to  put  two  and 
two  together  so  as  to  make  whatever  he 
137 


Bennie  Ben  Cree. 

needs.  That  is  Ben  Cree's  saying,  the 
sense  of  which  he  learned  from  one  Sabre 
Calhoun,  when  they  lay  out  nights  on 
sand  or  in  undergrowth  and  watched  the 
pole  star  hopefully. 


138 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
251 


